The Last Sentinel

I am a sentinel at watch

awaiting an epiphany

for he who comes on clouds

holds seven stars in his right,

the light of the night.

As kitschy lingering days fold,

nights unfold the untold

will I not ware? definitely I'll tear

as a thief he comes in the dark behold

eyes will see Him, even those of those

who scathed his ribs so will I on hold.

Frigid whirly winds writhe deep far though

through rough troughs of my curly wrinkles

beneath the depth of withered facials

born of the seed, purchased by the blood

a millennium along with the lamb I amble.

november (the black poet)

November Wordsworth