A SCINTILLA OF THE PROMISED DAY

THE MAGNETIC POET

 hear those immortal voices of the stretch...

Their inspiring voices even to the deaf is audible, 

And their deeds remain even to the blind visible.

As a result a positive effect is incredible.

Perhaps they feel they could have done better;

Even though their graves are shrouded in His tremendous blessings.

A promise that indeed is being fulfilled by Him.

I greeted: 'Hello to those souls endeared; 

Multitude in their rewards and not the deceivers.'

And saw them in that unbearable pain melting.

Bones crushed; flesh burnt by that scorching fire.

The stern chastisement of the infidels...

This punishment, engineered by those pliant creatures,

But execute it with its full-fledged execution.

Thus their bodies bled profusely, the affected.

Sadly this is the end of their performance on stage.

Because this is what the perfected rigid law said on stage.

After a while I got 'good morning tap' on my back.

'Wake up... wake up... 'waaaaaake' up...,' someone chinwagged.

Then I realised that it was sleep and dream,

And not the real poetic justice day I thought.

Yet my key takeaways from that seemingly endless exultant cheerless fantasy say...

How you become a rare story on their lips I hush!

Even your name can't be maintained when you become it.

But 'the deceased' or 'the corpse' is preferred

Our best is always not good enough, they say.

To discourage pride in our deeds for good.