Ant Smith

All poems

Mana maya

A wasteland, a deadland, of sand and stone
There stands an old wizard, both cold and alone.
He surveys they ground, and sees dust settled
on corpses of mortals who meddled.

The eighth day saw our destruction
as piles of bodies formed, ghastly constructions.
He turns his mind back to great events,
that marked the fall,
that marked the time,
the marked the end of
all these men.

The magic of the spirit magi’s spells,
it beats within our voids
it beats within our shells.
Encapsulate our heaven
in a sea of hells.
Divine! Creations are much enjoyed.
But mind’s creations are,
much employed.

Lie down you’re dead.

I have the power over all I behold
withered earth gods, that now I control.
What is this power we claim to hold ?
Control, controller, control, controlled.

The eye of the wyrm, the word of death.
The power to turn, stone to flesh.
The sands of time, the tolling bells.
Vision of heaven, creation of hell.

Whilst idols idle in isolation
They feel the freeze of hells creation.

The wizard passes now along new tracks,
for he has seen us grow
from heaven
from heaven
from heaven to inferno.