In the supernatural sphere,
down London Road
cheek by jowl,
the angel of death pontificates.

Beyond its parlor,
the old subterfuge of death,
languishes in this netherworld.

Untouched by conscience.
Our apparition stands by the silver moon,
self-crowned and wearing the also run
upending the praying soul.

The past doctrines of survival,
half barrelled,
speaks its own enormity.