Dark Days

"Dark days," a man pled

"Dark days lie ahead."

Tears were shed,

Vessels bled,

Widows wed.

Pastors said,

"Pray to be fed"

But the prayers were dead.

Predators fled,

They prey was fed.

Children sang their songs of dread.

"Dark days," the man claimed

"Dark days seem near."

A pulse of fear,

To persevere

Such times of queer.

Pastors said,

"We do not hear

Your prayers, dear"

But the prayers were dead.

Some tried to cry

A single tear,

To guide them somewhere

Not far from here.

The Children sang,

And in their songs,

The dread was clear.

"Dark days," the man insisted,

"Dark days on the morrow!"

Not pain in his voice,

Not pain, but sorrow.

The Pastors said,

"You must all pray!

Pray from your hearts!"

But their own hearts, hollow.

Eyes rove in search 

Of comfort, of a smile,

Of hope to borrow,

Of a lie to swallow

But none was found.

The Children sang,

Of marvel, of joy,

Of life that thrived,

Yet the Children knew,

And the Pastors, and the man,

That the days had arrived

And the dread would follow.