All poems and writings are © "Raksha" RJ Boettcher 1998-present


As the sun sinks slowly from the sky,
the blood red horizon bleeding it's last
life-giving light.
The sky quickly darkened to a purple wound,
the pin pricks of light from the stars
illuminating the dead flowers and weeds below.
A long forgotten skull,
bleached white in the sun's harsh light,
reflects the last agony of life before the peace
of death.
A flare of outrage sparks a fire of violence.
The skull shatters in the sudden change of atmosphere.
The fire dulls
into the shape of the last false hope,
life offered.
Yet this symbol, this star of the earth,
gave not hope and salvation,
but rage and damnation.
Spit forth from the souls of mankind,
the spirit of corruption sowed seeds of accusation
and death to those who dared summon it.
In the last great ruin,
the star lies.
Carved into stone and filled with the blood of its late masters -
it hums with forbidden power.
The hand of "The Savior"
lies severed, feeding the blood to the star -
still clenched in death as it did in life.
The pain and anguish acts as a magnet,
drawing forth the energy of the star.
A scuffle in the shadows -
behind the temples of the false god, now long shattered.
A disfigured creature.
A freak of the essence of life.
It lurches towards the faint glow of the star.
One desperate hand reaches towards it,
words of power and death spill from its mouth
like a fountain of crimson blood.
A spark is born in the star.
A spark that grows.
The freak rises,
turns to the creature in the spark.
Hope for salvation glitters in its sunken orbs.
The spark widens into a tear.
The star glows more
with hunger and power.
A crack of thunder.
The sky now dark and black as pitch.
As a bottomless pit into hell.
Lightning flashes.
A roar fills the freak's ears.
A shriek, as the unnameable thing from the star arrives.
It steps into the material world.
Too late
the freak realizes its folly.
Salvation and peace do not burn
within the spawn's hellish eyes.
A clawed barb skewers the freak to the ground.
Though not a vital wound,
the freak dies.
The star is silent,
the hell-spawn returned.
Another crack of thunder.
Rain begins to pour.
The black rain of death and misery.
The freak sits dead,
lanced through the stomach -
anchored to the ground with a twisted piece of metal.
Its face is contorted with fear and agony.
No peace will it find in this death.
A thousand, thousand years later,
it will sit, still.
The pain and misery
ebbing from its powdered remains.
The twisted metal
darkened with the blood of the last offer
by life.
Still it stands -
thrust a hundred meters into to earth.
A sign of the last defiance
of hope....
And its loss over
And on the bloody horizon
the sun sinks for the last time.
The devil's great black shadow
engulfing its light -
In Everlasting Darkness.

© "Raksha" RJ Boettcher 1998



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