I, Illona late of Pompeii

 
a token day where mercy fled
highborn, nobles and of the clothes
born of plenty, of joyous sunny day
gluttons and gormandisers
fill their bowels with carnality
both mouths filled and full  
 
far be the thoughts of sorrow
bouquet of grief on the morrow
 
hearken unto me
for I, Illona servant of the Oracle  
of the third eye see
fire shall spew and blood,
shall moist the sands
darken the distant stars

repent ye of thy iniquities and wickedness  
as they are prologue to harsh ends
gather thy ships and horses
let all flee from this city
for it shall be buried with the tide
from above, wrath as spilled wine
 
None listen, derision merely, none hear me
even the mangy cur curled its lips at me
die they shall, a prophecy fulfilled
 
behold, the fist of the gods arise
in columns of smoke
catapulted fiery fire with rocks
behold before ye all unbelievers
they who died today  
shall weep with woe  
 
terror dreadful weeping lost  
in the roar erupted roar
 
Hell agape the silence bequeath
settled blanket of soft gray sand
ten feet deep, thy forced slumber
bleeding unrequited life
had ye heeded me
Sol might shine on thy children
 
I walk weeping on the ruins  
of Pompeii, a grey ghost
mourning yesteryear's folly.

Pic by rj & linda miller photography
#this poem was entered in a competition here. thank you for reading#