R E D *) I C E Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

Waiting on the movement, a child is born
to diplomats of c o l d conscientiousness,
with inherited proclivities for great power
like the rush...clash.... the riveting pomp
of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Le Noël,
though Yuletide rock is all this capture be,
in oppose to this child's inure aspirations
in setting out to place his chilling mark
as a one man band fueled by ruthless chords,
hell bent on challenging God and Mother,
opaque to the seeds of basic human ethics,
cunning tyrant, steel heart....running hard -
with thick, iced veins and solipsistic mind.

Lo! This child is 'not' what you think he be;
his name not Diabolus, his stead not Hades.
Historically, his predecessors perished hard.
He's about persecution and a pre Wall rule,
a mission fueled solely by egotistical means.
So black his heart, his wrath could crystalize
ashes to ice no hammer could crack or shard
nor be sliced by the strike of a bloody sickle.
You know his name.... know his motivation;
this child, be no child today....Or is he, still?
His dream died, November... of eighty-nine;
his hope is to rekindle...the cold black flame,
abetted by a renaissance of libertys infarction.



© 2014-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR

Revised / Reposted
April 29th, MMXVII