Death-song
War garbles a tune, spits up
blood.
Bodies, empty pits
of eyes and entrails
break like a birch branch.
White waste flits down like snow.
An archetype, copied, laboured forever
melts into a meticulous concoction.
The apocalypse sets in with a daze, drawing
drunken curtains over the survivor soul.
The crow is a warrior,
with his black machine gun eyes.
Easy.
God coughs, the countryside,
elegiac to start
hacks with a demon.
The smoke pulls, harsh, and takes the tab.
It's all a waste of white ash.