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.