Sundown of the Heart
A waning aura no longer flamed enough to flicker a surrender. Decomposes, decompresses like mummification wrap.
An anti-resolvent-fume-
of-infest-chokes-out-integral-yield.
Thick as molasses, blackstrap.
Blight is apathy, and apathy is blight.
A Void, a claim farming the abyss.
Marketing it's lie, on sale.
Though it has a monopoly.
PolyEntropy.
In the garden of life; an empty field of dreams,
lays unintended on its side,
untended save for the shadows
that yield a mock harvest.
Decay on display of manifest.
The sky, descended as a Judas Ascendant,
it's belly gorged with malfeasance.
Exotic particles curse the ground
like wormwood in ritual burn, cache of ashen incense.
Libra sells you back your rye, mildewed and palmer wormed, to bore in at the destitute
at double price, double dealing
with the wages of Sin and Death.
Doubled down.
Doubled over.
So the pendulum swings
with the rusty blade of misuse.
The rose of passion unbloomed.
Ploughshares turned into warmachined torture device. Moreover.
"...and the feeling is dead, and that's the Ultimate Sin."
~Ozzy Osbourne
[They attack the Family... and the Poets are silent.]
"...and that's the Ultimate Sin"
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