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Kismet

A tale of pure fiction I swear to be true,
Of a town we'll call ‘Damned’ and a man we'll call ‘You’.
He came to the town with the hope to spread fear,
That judgement day's wrath would shortly be here.
He held up a sign with a message that said,
‘God doesn't love you and he wants you dead!’
And speaking the words that he heard in a dream,
He warned them of Deity's disastrous scheme.

Lava shall boil you and cook your flesh raw,
And the sheer thought of fear shall kill you once more.
A storm is en route and I hope you're afraid;
God isn't happy with the choices you've made.
He sent you a saviour who you then double-crossed,
Now practice is over and you've already lost.
You've done it! You're done! Now your judgement is nigh,
And I'll tell you in detail, how you're going to die.

From every oak tree a still body will hang,
And you will be haunted by a dangerous gang.
Of every nightmare you could ever conceive,
And the air will taste bitter like poison to breathe.
Beasts from extinction shall rise from the dead,
And will hunt down the weak and the young in their beds.
Man shall then watch astronomical wrath,
Turn a meteor shower into a bloodbath.

Umbrellas and raincoats; they'd do you no good,
This is biblical rain, not some casual flood!
The worst and the last storm that you'll ever know,
And the town fool, he'll be the first one to go.
Quit begging and pleading, it's useless to pray,
Your end is not near, your end is today.
And it cannot be stopped for my words will be true,
For God can be cruel but no crueller than you.

‘I'll be honest,’ he said in a satisfied state,
‘I'm rather sadistic, I simply can't wait.
For the impending storm that is drawing nearby,
As I watch from the heavens like birds in the sky.
For I have been gracious, I've told unto you,
What happens to filth when it's under God's shoe.
And on this doomsday when all mercy has gone,
I'll be having a blast in my rapture for one.’

The people got angry and then they got mad,
‘Why are you making this out to be bad?
We haven't seen rain for over a year,
It couldn't come sooner; I wish it was here.
You say death is certain and while this part is true…
No one's exempt, especially not you.’
He was thrown out of town onto the hill so high,
And sure enough, he was the first one to die.

by Connor Brooks (17)
Wilberforce College, Hull


Competition - The Poetry Trials

Copyright remains with the author.