Bletchley Betrayer

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

 The moon is like a sickle reptile found

In one of Satan’s prayerbooks, Books of Hours,

Books of spells.  The sickle makes no sound,

A hiss unworthy of the sickle’s powers.

The  shadows on the crescent moon are codes

That only Christ can read.  His tongue is dumb

With vinegar and with the spit of toads.

He chooses not to help.  His love is numb

Concerning you.  He nods to witches’ brew

Because he cannot speak.  At best he nods

To someone else instead of telling you

The revelation, much like other gods.

  A lunacy defines this universe.

    He fails to write a vellum helpful verse.

~ Phillip Whidden