Apocalypic Visions

And there will be no candled moon, No bones picked clean by virtue's rage Against all sins left un-forgiven. Lovers left in limbo-light at dawn Shall stand as statues stand, Alone, as broken martyrs Cast in marbled majesty. When death destroys our sacredness All sorrows of the soul are spread Like seeds across a barren field. A whale-eyed sailor sings The hymns of his contrition, To banished angels caged beneath A deep and wind-swept sea. They rise again to wail Against the shackled straps Around their proud and pompous souls. Their dripping teeth are bared And black with rot of time. The Vultures hover over Decimated cityscapes. Cold moon of winter rising; Hoar-frost clinging fast To withered vines. Fields once fertile now are fallow, Planters scatter seed for naught, Their holy harvest stolen By embittered little gods Who grope with hope that nature will succumb And soon become but scuttled rubble - charred! A world grown old - no longer born anew, Is stripped and ripped with overkill Of things once cherished and are cherished still.