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Gray sky…..

When the bell tolls the dirge of hours gone

The oak and glass and steel doors shall part wide

And release its prisoners into the cold air,

Stale, stagnant, thick with hidden fogs

Which fills lungs without acknowledgement

That Death has come–and Death has come.

He rides upon the gray sky reflected in the eyes

Of the marching forms whose colors stand

In stark rebuke of the cold, hollow, granter of reprieve.

 He swings his scythe with every chime and boom

Of the blackened iron and molded bronze,

The pathes of the blade in time with the twisting of the hands:

His hands, its hands, their hands, mine.

Black trees……

They are not black in color despite what the sky

Tries to make it seem–despite its trials to make them totems

To some symbolic fate of man, fate of form, a grotesquerie.

Beyond these martyred beings whose lives have fallen

Away to assumed docility, mocked immobile impotency,

The wind, not a stirring figure running fingers through the leaves,

The grass, and flicking stones like bullets at the heads

Of the statue-walkers, but the real wind:

The kind that’s Time, that moves things to mark the shifting plates

That all forget move beneath their feet…..that wind,

That wind moves around and paints the backdrop of this scene.

And the open mouths can taste the ash and smell the coal

That isn’t there.