The Death Rattle Echoes From The East... Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

The Death Rattle Echoes From The East...



Who knew about Isis, ten years ago?
Who knew them even five years ago?
We were warned by a President
ten years ago; tho' no recorded name.
But, he claimed the danger...certain,
yet nine years later, another Commander
called this curse from hell no threat,
a mere Junior Varsity team at best,
incapable of spreading their subservience,
refusing to call them Extremists,
which boggled the brains of most.

Thugs, astutely treacherous
from one calling card to the next,
as they do their evil business
of blood for crude oil,
for in the east that's how Terror works.
Cowardly thugs on the run, they be,
hiding behind their black hooded masks,
so as not to allow authorities
to see them and hunt them down.

These are not holy people by any measure,
their agenda, a paragon for sacrilege,
and the recruited ones are only with them
as otherwise they'd be in jail for other crimes
they committed before they broke loose.
And they think all the same, as all demons do.
This is not a cult, they have all come quite willing
from countries that might shock some people.
Make no mistake, they are no ''JV TEAM'',
and denying their power is a mark of ignorance!

Same faces, different names,
same missions, different targets;
it's the M.O.'s that grabs the eye,
making stale bread look freshly baked
by changing targets and tactics,
like watching swords rest
on the nape of bowed necks,
seconds from death.

Or the eight year old boy
stolen from his family,
and cross-hung to die, like Jesus Christ,
for his refusal to denounce Jesus Christ,
all carried out by a conclave of Anti-Christ's.

Better tagged as thieves, cowards and thugs,
so brave, they refuse to show their face,
so holy that in honor of their alleged beliefs
they prostitute girls... and sodomize boys,
gang raping them first, before selling them off,
as slaves, as meat for the vulgar vermin-

and were only spared crucifixion,
as their virgin flesh held more value
even more so than the internet video
of young boys hung, touched and torched
so graphically twisted
that even Al Jazeera
passed on the chance
to display the content
to their own audience.
Do you hear it-
getting louder'
Its echo not distant,
Its sound, haunting,
the rattle of evil;
the rattle of a serpent
the laughter of Iblis
the rattle of Death.



©Frank J. Ryan, Jr. / FjR
2015 All Rights Reserved

Thursday, October 13, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: murder,terrorism,torture
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Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

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