A shadow stumbles
through the chaos -
though nothing stands
between the moon,
the shattered icons
and blasted houses.

Conjured from
the exhaust of
ceaseless agitation,
the specter enshrouds
both the entranced
and the exalted.

This billowing
aberration -
the embodiment
of fears brewed
from loathing -
has no substance

or perception.
A ravenous void,
it slouches and bends
towards the
gilded Calvary
of conviction's end.


Tom Spencer © 2017