Where
is the strange wine that we were promised?
Where
is our dream glow of sun?
Where
is the heart for those who have waited,
the
vibrant rest of motion when rest is done
and
the long decay of decay.
Where
is the force to be gathered
that
through the green fuse of the soul
would
drive the soul flower in the blood's ray
to
linger in eternal shine
and
never ending sun?
When
here there is only silence
and
the dark heart of dark darkness.
When
here there are only faces,
mute
and murdered by days,
with
gaping, slack holes where mouths should be,
pale
and lifeless,
the
empty sockets of their eyes
limp
and hung like rags of skin
on
poles of skull and bone.
When
here there is only the promise of pain,
mute
desire
and
wrongful annihilation.
The
strange black crow is calling.
The
strange black crow that flaps its wings
is
dancing on our thirsty grave
as
he turns to face us once again
and
caw.
--
September 19, 2014
