Not all is as it seems

The bloodied sword

raised high,

glints cruel above the slaughtered

Child.

Innocence reflected

in unforgiving steel;

to strike the blow

of passion,

cast reason

to the wind

and in the child’s

silenced screams

hear raw and

haunting dreams.

Divided,

drawn asunder,

split Solomon’s

favoured child.

The soul is cast

to Hell’s domain,

agony-wrapped

upon the cross.

And yet

there comes a figure,

on angel’s feet

and wings,

who whispers:

‘Waken, Waken,’

not all is as it seems.

The cloud-laced moon

is smiling

into the bright

of night,

repeating and repeating,

‘Not all is as it seems.’

Believing is the secret

Of life,

Of death,

Of dreams.