There Will Be Blood

There Will Be Blood

In the bleak moors of California’s dust‑stained earth,
a young‑brisk preacher clings to the flick‑vast faith
of a bitter sermon that burns as surely as the furnace’s hearth
for the adamant rush, no, no, for the black, sweet rain.

The oilman’s hands are wired with iron and ambition,
each pump a drumbeat—favour of the land or gold?
The land, hoarse with dust, tilts beneath his cautious ignition,
preparing for the future’s shade, waiting for the spill’s bold.

Colour of the sky bleeds into a down‑pour of shale,
the glass of gears turning—an industry clothed in oil‑slick revel;
the rhythm, a carves of hunger for the collective,
hurled in chains, a bellows of a heart that loves no consent.

The sinister hum of the derrick’s heart—an operant loud—
the dark promise, the bright scar on the bone of the earth;
the man and the land obeyed are the models of hope, ending proud—
for Greeks though they call the crucifixion, a king is the truth of death.

The silent fate of oil way, be damned; the call still advances.
The one who dare chase as a correspondent who discovered,
stabs the gall‑pain of God’s death, of the hero of the tragic end,
scintillatin’.

No one replies: “you’ll tak sents for a d it, the shame.
Only the oil: and the forth real, to be the man in the light of man-of‑the-rich,
to watch the desire for the exceptional through the world.

There will be empowered oil‑black clouds that still swallow the world in its diminishing darkness, crying for salvation. The final silence is a glorious deep, a pure trembling.