After all has ended what will be left?
A solitary weeping figure?
A pair of fissured eyes that wilt in the dark?
Or the vermillion tears that fall upon the
Heads of budding roses supported only
By their feeble necks?
The death of the angels is marked by
Grand symphonies lost and redundant.
Stentorian cries in the heavens shall
Wake the dead oceans and cover the earth.
Pallid faces, hollow eyes and cold lips fall.

What will we be witness to?
What will be left?

All of hell is wrapped in ice
And lodged in our throats.
Sibilating we die, pale and
Cold like a thin rain that
Washes blood from
The summer fields.
Cacophony. A thousand
Shrieking crows produce
Our crepuscular sky.
We suffocate under this Stygian
Blanket, like a naked, stillborn
Fetus on the winter road.
Train me to walk; Stand my
Splintered feet On the fraying rope
- And watch me go.