Deep in the Shadows

Deep in the shadows

Buried beneath earths crust are the living.








Deep in the Shadows

For those still living, things
happen, and all the secrets
will be given to those who know,
for buried beneath earth’s crust
are the living, who will surface
in our lives.

Terror will reign and feelings
of intense loss will scourge
earth as we know it, over sea
and land the black winged Raven
will have his last laugh and the
cunning bird will fly under the
moonlit stars to avenge the
land taken by man.

Pestilence will spread like honey
flowing from a bee’s heated hive
peculiar spirits will attend the last
mass when the Bishop bleeds on
his Holy throne, all the while his
congregation will weep like lost
sheep as the sword comes down

swiftly from Hell.

The manifestation of the dark one
who claims his throne on earth,
will lead his serpents with forked
tongues and breathe of fire over
flasks of red Mongolian wine within
his noble halls of justice, while the
common people bleed in the streets
from World Power, overthrown in
malice and control, given as the lights
dimmed in all the cities that mourn
and hide from this dark Prince who
claims to be our savior.

There will be no chamber music
as the Raven sits on castle walls,
the doors will be of golden arches
with locks fashioned by the artisan
Da Vinci the favorite of this Prince,
with brush and sculpting tools he
fashioned the throne that sits, this
blackest Prince from the underworld.
The gloomy doom is in our clear view
the distance stars reflect the foreboding
evil among the suffocation and stench of
fires in the streets, one can feel and taste
the Sulphur’s heaviness in the atmosphere
brought on the wings by the Prince of
Darkness, the terrible state and anxiety
of being alive yet in barely a state of
existence. The power of thought is frozen
in time and every experience is a nervous
feeling of loss.

The only hope is in the pallid and motionless
slender lines that reach to Heaven
like fuzzy curtains hanging in midair
they are our only hope from evil lurking limbs
reaching out to pull and swing from them
to safety below our souls. All things are
depressing and only the flames of the
burning lamps mirror our reflections
sending our souls soaring away from this
realm of darkness.

The demons on the scene were frightful
Attacking, tearing and ripping who
remained in this unholy place, the madness
continued long into the days and weeks,
torturing every living thing on earth,
plagues ravaged extinguishing all
who were left, except for the righteous
saints, who could not be destroyed with
plagues sent from the Prince of
Evil who took merriment in watching
the dead fall before his feet.

And lo behold there came forth this
Prince of Peace wrapped in finery from
the Orient, sable draped over the shoulders
of this beaming ray of light, so majestic that only
the holiest of men on earth could see. A defined
shadow, of which only the son would send from
a Heavenly place, such radiance was familiar,
but so distant from the billowing clouds, not
speaking a word as it moved across the sky,
formless and not definite of what it could be
a man or god. It just hovered and stretched
It’s body of stars across the earth’s path
and all became still.

It spoke in low tones saying, I am here in my
Dwelling, don’t fear me for I have come to
save this world from the dark Prince who has
claimed the throne, his voice was gentle yet
firm as the dusk drew near, the sun hid behind
the moon, while ears heard
and listened to its command, to love and pray
for peace in the land, all was silent as
it departed with the last words.
Let me not return for it will be the end of your
world and darkness will be permanent. Love
one another, be kind to every animal on
your earth.

© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved


Deep in the Shadows — 1 Comment

  1. I wish to humbly place here, words and feelings from a great writer and poet friend Wayne Brown. He has captured the essence and feelings of what I penned a few years back. Thank you very much my friend.

    “And that is how it is stated by a writer who has honed his skills to a very fine edge. These are not just words tossed together like salad, but descriptive phrases woven into a tapestry of harmony and execution that surely begs of perfection. This is art in the same fashion by which the painter puts colored oils to the canvas and tells his tale in the contrasting twists of colored hues. This is that which people read and yearn to have told the story in such fashion–wanting so much for such beauty to roll of their tongued brush. This is the awesome fruit coming forth from a labor of love by a man who has stood toe to toe with the beast of his sins and won back his soul; a man now quite comfortable in his own skin and at peace with his role in this life. This is the work of a true wordsmith that I have the privilege to call friend. Thank you Vincent Moore for the sweat of your brow and the colors of your soul. You are a true gift to mankind.”

    Wayne Brown

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