A Writer's Sea

There is red and there is dead
There are some that sailors dread
Though my own, a peaceful tide
Restless thoughts are churned inside

See the water's never blue
Terns and Gulls are absent too
Not all, loves a placid murk
Summons all i need for work

On this vast colossal sea
Worlds i pass and ramble free
Worlds distorted, so grotesque
Need to write this style burlesque

Always when my body's soak
Fervent waters that provoke
Rageful ghosts that's sometimes bane
On this baleful brood of Cain

Sentiments from liquid pure
On an illness, found a cure
Inquiries the waters heed
Makes up my poetic creed

Below the waves, a forged scheme
By someone whose in the dim
Writing truths that raise the steam
Parallel to precious dreams

You can never see below
Clearly all what made me know
Just like now, its hard to guess
What the pen wants to address

The Prophecy of a Tax Collector

End will be on everything
From erotic love to sighs
The time we lend is running
From the Architect of skies

The sun will soon subdue us
And the well will water lack
Epidemics will brew pus
With the steam of earthly crack

Could be rotting there there for weeks
Some are meters deep away
Bodies with the ruble mix
Savor the fumes of decay

All the nation make their rise
Rise of the inhumane rage
Which forms the thick darkened skies
For some nuclear exchange

The profit-based morals
Of unproductive fathers
With irregular bowels
While people eat each other

Cease to plant, the farmers heir
Feel the lowering of yields
Then succumb a curse so fair
Of acidic empty fields

Did you hear the scripture say
Exaggerate of Matthew
Must you clean your soul today
For redemption is for few