The Fault

This, a collapsing division Of our longest standing divide; Ours, a sole carnate revision Of that which we would once deride; As all the bitter tastes we taste, Such burning cold and ugly snow, And each break fades out in its haste, A livid vine living to grow And fester as a parting gift-- Once wolven-skinned compassion-- Brandishing a new schism and rift-- Now sheep-skinned and thus impassioned, Sheathen false wings of Seraphim, To rust and field this frightened fold, Mercurial from limb to limb, The acidic fall to behold.