12 Dec 2016 – Sonnet

The ancient serpent wakes and lifts his head,
brought up from where he slept when sewers rise.
Unheard from, you believed the snake was dead –
His old skin shed, but it’s the same disguise.
He sings, and zombies stumble from their graves
in answer to his call, unblinking eyes
burn hot in fervent passion, hatred’s slaves
give answer to their master’s evil cries.
And I’m just killing time until they come,
my weapons are blank paper, pen, and cross.
Their dancing fills the night, I hear their drums,
and I reply to xenophobic dross:
“Best come prepared to do your very worst!
You’ll hafta shoot your way through my ass first!”