At the Close

Dangling like lead from yarn
And clinging to the latter like puss
From God’s eye they were lumps
Slathered down absurdly in the carnage of their brethren

Blood decorated their faces
Tribally grotesque
The tears of passionless contention
Looked much like cracks in their faces
From which their humanity took leave

The taste of rotting flesh lingered in their gaping mouths
Their shoulders melting
The clinking of metal to bone
As the trudged on
Tibias and fibulas like woven basket under tungsten
Avoiding the craters
Where the earth had inhaled
Only to choke wretchedly on death’s stench

Sorority is resident insanity
They regard the living like the dead
But with even more yearning
What lost hope of stripped men
They dare not get high on their mother’s old faith
The most potent hallucinogenic in a poisonous fight

The trepidation feels dissimilar
Hope wants for Hades’ hand to stir
To claim account for the gross desires of men
Reverie begs to dwell in his den
For God to lie quietly aside

The tiny pulsing sinews of fear burst
And the forthcoming deluge will envelop them
As honest as fear can be
It bears the heavy truth
But only does it say so, boldly, at the close





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