Night At the Necropolis

Night, Ageless and porous, Sang screeches of fireflies of Crescendo-diminuendo sparks. What hour? In the midst of the hustles, I lost my hoursight Different, tonight, is my eyesight, seeing even Through the darkest foliage of gentle, but sinister Caress sway. On the broken, cracked slabs, squatting, dark torsos! Pensive, broken, sad, old and so good the Work of Italian sculptors. Further deep in searching glare, the hardened Mats of hurried sepultures of returning Soldiers, whose wellingtons have squelched in Mudblood. Wars and battles never post blandishments On peace. What hour now, brother? It is so dark and mean, and my hourglass refuses a Moon reflection. But now the hours move fast on march of the Headless feet in wellingtons. 'Left, right, left, right....' Dolts hasten among fleeing marabouts. Stench from ailing, balmed smog Stills the whiffs of roasting deer, all in One silence of close hour canticles... Such phalanx, brother, coldens the head.