The God of This World to his Prophet The Society September 1, 2012 Poetry By Bill Coyle Go to the prosperous city, for I have taken pity on its inhabitants, who drink and feast and dance all night in lighted halls yet know their bacchanals lead nowhere in the end. Go to them, now, commend, to those with ears to hear, a lifestyle more austere. Tell all my children tired of happiness desired and never had that there is solace in despair. Say there is consolation in ruins and ruination beneath a harvest moon that is itself a ruin, comfort, however cold, in grievances recalled beside a fire dying from lack of love and trying. Bill Coyle is a poet living in Somerville, Massachusetts. Click here to visit his website. Click here for more poetry by Bill Coyle. Reprinted with the permission of the poet. Related Post ‘Unforeseen Good Fortune’s Heirs Are We’ and Oth... Unforeseen Good Fortune’s Heirs Are We There’s little of the Plague that we can find to celebrate except for this small gem – when those who died... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.