Bells

I speak of the desolate of an ending where there is no God, or beacon or harbor. of the pure and deserted who sit mute and stare at lights as cold as moons.. who rests in wire cradles, who's angels only glare, who's place in limbo is as marked as a mountain. I speak of hollow halls, of the spectral sadists who gleam at the sores and palsies.. of the purgatorial stints that envelope the restless and weary.. that starve the sun with rendering and reckoning, who clothe the lost with wax and pallor. I speak of the lower birds pitch-black and circling, the pine lottery,the gaunt judge. There is an echo in the vacuous prayer closet- A stone and stern remainder.. an eternity,it seems.. fixed,implacable, indifferent.