The Year of Death
September sharpens a knife
and hands it to December
the year has one foot in the grave
as we marvel at leaves of ember
October strips trees to nude puppets
as children play in their corpses
scatter their bodies about the ground
and burn them without remorse
birds tred upon the harvest
their gluttony, a foolish sum
their chest-high pride and full bellies
will only be consumed next month
November coronates itself,
a crown of ice and tin,
An Antichrist of misery,
A wolf in shepherd's skin
December hides in the shadows
and cradles the eleven months
with one last breath,
January steals the knife,
and stabs them all to death.
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