The darkness now descending floods the city as it dies
while shadows lurk in legions 'neath the looming Evil Eye.
Its frozen stare envelops all, it penetrates and pries,
denouncing loathed dissenters to the keepers in the sky.
One’s inner thoughts are well descried before they’ve passed one’s lips
and cruelly crushed with grim contempt twixt despots’ fingertips;
and when a taboo-idea’s found, with which to come to grips,
the Evil Eye dispenses pus and fabrication drips.
The Evil Eye peers down on us to conquer and control,
and marks our every movement, be we hiding in a hole
or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole.
Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly’s not the goal.
For Princes rule with tungsten fists wherever they may roam
and sip from golden goblets, nectar, sweet as honeycomb
while peons (stripped of mind and soul) stray never far from home,
with faces 'neath the iron boot, ****** deep below the loam.
While phantoms fade, then reappear within the urban sprawl,
the gloom (adorned with Evil Eyes which pierce the livid pall)
pervades the ache and agony that poets sometimes scrawl
of plenitude to penury, how life endures the fall.
And peasants pass, parading by to fill the golden urn
with pennies for the afterlife wherefore the faithful yearn,
though screams of babes with empty eyes are never of concern
to those who covet silver coins, eyes cold, tongues taciturn.
And should the herd dare whisper words of freedom's fragrant bloom
or murmur sighs of worriment at earth's impending doom,
the Evil Eye will squint a bit at those who so presume,
condemning nascent untamed thoughts to wither in the womb.
The Evil Eye inspects us all, then tattles to the kings
(manipulating puppet people, pulling on the strings)
extracting secrets from our souls like spiders plucking wings
that flutter round the hangman’s knot as freedom’s carcass swings.
To hide the pains of purgatory, far-flung distant shores
(on islands of containment) cache the dingy dungeon doors
and inquisition water-boards that buoy their holy wars,
while sandmen drape our eyes with dust and rainbow metaphors.
We’ll know the party's over when there's little left to eat
and all the learned scholars, lean, stay silent when they meet -
the Evil Eye will spawn distrust on matters indiscreet.
The signs are all around us - even sheep no longer bleat.
Epilogue
One sightless seer scans the skies and mourns the heretofore.
Two limbless men descend the stairs to find there is no floor.
Three tongueless women babble, telling tales of nevermore.
Four earless children drown within the ocean's muted roar.
When doubt becomes defiance, ask: Will bedlam soon arrive?
Will doves appear above us all, or drones to guard the hive
while fed with milk and honey by the Queen and kept alive
to gut the gale below them? Will the Evil Eye survive?