And there will be no candled moon, 
No bones picked clean by virtue raging 
At all sins left un-forgiven. 
Lovers wrapped in limbo-light at dawn 
Shall stand as statues stand, 
Alone, like broken martyrs 
Cast in marbled majesty.

 

When death destroys our sacredness 
All sorrows of the soul are spread 
Like seeds across a barren field.

A whale-eyed sailor sings 
The hymns of his contrition, 
To banished angels caged beneath
A deep and wind-swept sea.

They rise again to wail 
Against the shackled straps
Around their proud and pompous souls. 
Their dripping teeth are bared 
And black with rot of time
As Vultures hover over
Decimated cityscapes. 

 

Cold moon of winter rising,
Hoar-frost clinging fast 
To withered vines. 
Fields, once fertile, now are fallow.
Planters scatter seed for naught,
Their holy harvest stolen 
By embittered little gods 
Who grope with hope that nature will succumb
And soon become but scuttled rubble - charred!