The crows are well fed on our fallen dead,
Beak lancing eye, bursting gelatinous sea of sights
to blackness and baggy capsule,
Even their lamentation has gone,
Just the fog of war remains.
Verdant pastures were given by us;
the gods chained up on Olympus,
which brackish wash renders barren
with barely a hope of crop,
The earth consumes our children,
Whose toil goes unrewarded,
The ground makes a meal of their bones
And grim trees emerge from the dust.
The cities have pushed their final sprawl
and ebbed. With arms of wind
the idols of decadence are torn down,
a carpet of concrete decorates the base of these skeletal towers
whose ghostly eyes still scrutinize the skulking dweller.
The incandescent lights and vampiric song of finance,
That sang sweetly in the hearts and twisted the souls
and judged that success be token counted
in the revenue of metal baubles,
Unfit for purpose but for that of deception,
That too has drifted away.
Desolation is tomorrows promise,
Stillness and silence its prophet.