They were human once, it is said.
Now they torture the living
and abandon their dead.
Like their predecessors
of the same name,
killing is their pleasure
and destruction their game.

Their Dark Lord sits upon his throne
in Sochi, where his mind dwells alone.
To unite all, under his dark reign,
as subjects, or slaves—to Him, all the same.
No longer in Thangorodrim does He dwell.
He rules now from Moscow, and seeks
an Empire of Hell.

Hell is created
by the ORCS whom he orders.
Their blood lust to be sated
far beyond  Russia’s borders.
Destruction they rain from the skies above
on people who flee
from all that they love.

They were human once,
and perhaps even Him.
Now they are beyond
the world’s Creation
and we call on Varda
to vanquish him.

The Ogre does what ogres can,
Deeds quite impossible for Man,
But one prize is beyond his reach,
The Ogre cannot master Speech:
About a subjugated plain,
Among its desperate and slain,
The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,
While drivel gushes from his lips.

everything i stand for is alien here
everything i despise is rife
death is glorified at every corner
and trampled upon is life

you're not supposed to speak
but you're required to believe
kindness is called weak
and you're not allowed to grieve

war is peace, they say
ignorance is strength
now i find myself cast away
where lies are being fed at length

i gaze, unblinking, into the abyss
it gazes back, calling my name
i've always felt there's something amiss
with this wicked, cruel game

the game i chose not to play
the game that has no rules
the game you can't expect to win
the game so loved by fools

I’m a lone gunslinger
with a broken trigger finger.
I’m an old firefighter
with a gas can and a lighter.
I’m a spy undercover
with a double agent lover.
I’m the blind preacher
who has Satan for a teacher.
I’m the hangman
with a noose around my neck.
I’m the ship’s cat,
sunbathing on the deck.
The apocalypse is here
and we’re all going to heck.

I apologize for my offensive tweet. I know that my words caused real harm, and for the next two weeks I will be spending time in reflection, meditation, and  healing yoga at my Colorado ranch. I am also donating $100,000 to Black Marxists Anonymous.

I humbly ask forgiveness for the insensitive remarks that I made on my friend’s 1985 middle school yearbook page when I was 13. I know that my words caused real harm. There is no excuse for my poor judgment, and although my supporters mean well by pointing out that I was an adolescent, I do not agree that I should not be held to the same standards as a contemporary adult. I have spent time with my pastor examining my deep sinful nature.

I regret my costume at the Met Gala. I know that cultural appropriation causes real harm, and for a white woman to wear a dress adorned with feathers is an insult to Native Americans. I have auctioned off all of my turquoise jewelry and donated the proceeds to a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Committee studying ways to improve BIPOC representation on the Met Gala planning committee. I have engaged a Native shaman to guide me to a path of understanding via guided Ayahuasca use.  

I take full responsibility for standing next to Ned, my former best friend, in the photograph that has recently emerged of us at a friend’s wedding last year. Ned’s inexcusable remark on Tuesday that “All lives matter” is deeply offensive to me and today I join the diverse community that is boycotting his performances. I am ashamed that I ever called this person my friend.  

I regret ever working with J.K. Rowling. She is a transphobic hatemonger who deserves our scorn and contempt. I realize that she will continue to espouse her bigoted views, because her fans do not care, Harry Potter lives forever, and she’s a billionaire who probably lives in a castle. But I will continue to post my outrage on my Facebook page so that…anyway, Rowling *****!

My muse does tickle,
I cannot deny,
but she does not stop…until I cry,
so I try to be happy,
I want to be free,
but then I miss her,
touching me,
With  a tear in my eye,
I reach for my pen,
begging for her to touch me again

BLCostello©2021