Horseman

Demons around me dance
Like shadows in a distant fire
Horses, restive, neigh and prance
Around the ancient pyre

The stench of death reeks
Through the mist; in every breath
The horseman blindly seeks
A way to deliver ‘death’

His arrow ‘poison’; his sword fiery red
Blood covers his mighty shield
He horse pale as though it’s dead
His strike my fate had ultimately sealed

His arrow turned my heart ‘diseased’
He strikes with no mercy in sight
He is with his ‘deed’ extremely pleased
To bring upon me this woeful plight

His strike is no match for mercy in heaven
Defeated he retreats in a speedy flight
From this earth he is shamefully driven
By a ‘Knight’ on a horse so ‘white’

By his word the diseased heart is healed
And the agony of this ‘mortal’ will cease
The path to heaven is at last revealed
I will follow that ‘path’ and be at peace 

By Max O'Reilly

Portrait of Flames

He wanted to paint his own portrait, a portrait that will make him immortal.

   “Is this my cause? Should I have a cause in life, or can I just paint because I want to paint?” he thought staring at his unfinished portrait. An old man with noticeable wrinkles on his face was bending down to pick up a piece of bread.

He decided to change the bread into something smaller but less valuable, a coin maybe.

   “This stirred Revolutions,” he thought. “I need something to stir the heart. Perhaps a drop of rain! My meds maybe,” he tittered as the alarm went off reminding him that it was time to take one of his heart meds.

   “I’m ordained dead, perhaps I should act dead. This is the cause, or is it the result?”

He poured a glass of wine, sipped it slowly and lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke spiral in white circles, took a deep breath and puffed the smoke. The first puff caused a bout of coughing. He stood in front of the mirror and watched his sallow face; wrinkles were beginning to form. He was too young to have wrinkles; he was too young to die.

He picked up the brush and changed the painting again; he drew a match. The old man lit the match. He watched the smoke spiral in circles and engulf the room. The smoke caused a bout of coughing until he could not breathe. Bread, rain, smoke and Fire!

The flames danced around the room in circles. The colors looked enchanting and he dropped his brush; they were the colors of revolution, the colors of life. The flames looked like Angels dancing to a divine tune.

   “This is a beautiful painting,” he thought. Nevertheless, was it really a painting?

The smoke overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees gasping. There he saw his meds lying on the floor. Meds and Fire! The angels were still dancing closer, beckoning him to join this celestial Waltz. He reached out to touch the dancing flames; the flames licked his hands. The brush felt hot, the old man faded away and the painting started glowing with colors, so beautiful and radiant like the colors of the Revolution, like the colors of life and the colors of Death.

   “I’m too young to die,” he screamed.

   “I’m too tired to live,” answered the old man and reached out to dance with the angels.

Max O’Reilly

Mercy or Vengeance

A shadow had eclipsed the majestic Sun

His Wings spread wide, his flight had begun

Celestial lights around him are shining bright

Illuminated the universe in the darkest night

His amber eyes are shining as a blood moon

the bravest hearts with fear will swoon

His fearless soul strikes reverence and Awe

With every strike of his mighty claw

Breathing fire to scorch and burn

In every swoop and every turn

Fear me, he screeched and scratched

A tiny Human in his claws he snatched 

A delicious feast that will satisfy his hunger

Or revenge to assuage his bloody anger

The Human killed his clan and stole his treasure

Was that blood thirst or simply for his pleasure?

Mercy, cried the fearful Human in panting gasps

Vengeance, cried the Dragon in an irritated rasp

The Human cowered, surrendered to his bloody fate

Mercy, Mighty Dragon, echoed the Dragon’s mate

Release your claws and let the Human go

Show Mercy, he will no longer be your foe

Max O'Reilly

Sacrifice

Flames erupted, its tongues licking the Sky

As a thunder of dragons was flying by

A Dragon brushed Her wing ‘gainst mine

In fierce embrace or a glorious design

Lightning danced in clouds of majestic Ice

Rippled along visions of Doom or Paradise

Eternity flashed swiftly across my mind

Destiny with Visions of “Her” entwined

Fierce talons grappled with Mine

Ripping flesh and feathers so fine

Blood trickled in crimson rivers

Flesh tore wide, bones broke in slivers

A dragon with scales bright as the Sun

Took my talons in hers and rapidly spun

Her wings shielded my bleeding Heart

Our Destinies entwined, never apart

Together we shall fly again, will it suffice?

I glimpse a Vision of Heaven, a sacrifice?

Lofty Souls departed, never to look behind

Bones in the Highest Peaks are now enshrined

Max O’Reilly

Genesis - The Beginning of the Syrian Revolution

In the beginning God created Heaven and called it “Syria”. And God said, “Let there be light and Peace,” and there was light and Peace. God saw that the light and Peace were good, and he was pleased.

And God said, “Let there be a love”. So God made the hearts of Syrian filled with love for peace.” God saw that the love was good, and he was pleased. Then God created the Jewel of all and called it “Freedom”, and the Syrians fell in love with Freedom. And it was so. Freedom became the ultimate goal of Syrians.

Then God created the beasts of the Earth, and the Beast of Syria was called Assad. Assad did not love peace or light; above all he hated Freedom. He oppressed the Syrians, murdered their sons and raped their daughters.

The people of Syria loved Freedom more than anything else in Heaven or Earth. And God said, “Let the people of Syria rise against the Beast” And it was so. Syrians rose against the beast of Syria, the so called Assad, but they rose in peace and love for each other, even distributed flowers of peace and love to the soldiers of Assad, in hope that their humanity would prevail and they return the love for their oppressed brothers and sisters. And God saw that it was good and blessed the Syrians.

Then the Beast was displeased and said, “Let there be war against Freedom. Let the people of Syria suffer and die so I could remain in power.” Thus the Beast unleashed his legions, his birds of fire, and all kinds of weapons in his arsenal, even the “gas of death”, to destroy Syria, kill the Syrian people and kill Freedom.

And God saw that and he was very displeased, so he blessed the Freedom Fighters of Syria to take up arms against oppression and Genocide and fight for Freedom, to fight the Beast and his legions.

Nonetheless, the Beast was cunning, and he released the last arrow in his arsenal of death, people killing in the name of God, so that the cause be lost and Freedom Fighters kill each other instead, and the Beast was very pleased.

Then God was very displeased and said, “I created mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may love each other, and live in peace and freedom.” And the Beast of Syria laughed and laughed and the sky rained barrels of death, the air breathed poison and the rocks spat fire and destruction. Syria was destroyed and its people became refugees in all corners of the earth.

God saw all the Beast had made, and it was not good. And there the people of Syria looked up to God in despair and said, “God; you are our only refuge from the Beast”, and then God answered their payers and created the “Syrian Revolution”.

Max O’Reilly

Camera is my Weapon

I picked up my “Camera’,
“A good shot!” they said.
A prize is looming in the air.
I crawled in the rubble.
I saw him there
He lifted what was left of his hand
To cover his burnt face
And I took the shot

I remember; I have seen him before!
Was it on Bloody Sunday?
Was it somewhere else?
When snipers riddled his body with bullets.
Was it somewhere else?

He was praying; kneeling, never to rise again.
I remember; bombs falling.
He was driving an ambulance
A dead girl in his arms.
Her blood on his face, scorching and hot.
And I took the shot.

A woman maddened with grief; pulling her hair,
She hit me with all the strength she’s got.
Was it because I took a shot?

A little girl was lying there,
Her face was so serene.
She had no arms or legs.
Nothing left but a sweet little face.
And I took a shot

Little boys with missing limbs
Were playing in the rubble
I stood petrified.
He reached with his ‘good’ hand
And took my camera,
To take a shot!

“Great work!” they said.
“Your pictures deserve a prize.”
“Are you blind?” I screamed.
“I’m not doing ‘this’ for a prize!”
“Look at them; hungry, bleeding, dying,
While their ‘Murderer’ escapes with impunity
Sir, I know; I was there,
I know, I took the shots.”

Max O’Reilly

Detainee

The Detainee

Cast into a dark place

Where am just a number

Suffocating in a tiny space

In dreamless slumber

Jolted, slashed; I would awake

To the screams of the voiceless

In every corner a horrible ache

Silhouettes breathless, noiseless

Still with pain; shaking with very jolt

Cracks of a merciless whip

Fear permeating like a thunder bolt

Bones cracking and flesh would rip

Apart a soul that once was free

Where freedom itself was confined

Within walls of fear; a "detainee"

Of old ages of hatred, blind

It will rise, will not bend a knee

To tyranny, to fear; it was the time

The voiceless had sung their plea

This sacred song; this holy rhyme

Jolted with fire that cracked my bones

My departing soul more adamant be

My last breath will shatter his "Throne"

I am the Revolution, I am the Detainee 

Max O’Reilly