The world sits still.
The streets are empty.
The birds fly unaware of the toll below
As we burn up in a sweat
Delirious and frail,
Recoiled in smothering homes,
Predators subdued behind glass displays to
The karmic amusement of
The aliferous jesters above us.
Nothing tells the days apart.
Siamese cycles of stars and satellites
For whom we are transient
Passengers in a long line of oddities.
Only banshees tear through the silence
Keening in clustered death wails.
Elegies for the damned,
The same whose burials have become a luxury
In times of saturated cemeteries and shallow graves,
Where all is rushed past eulogies and prayers,
And the holy man’s mask muffles his words
As he questions His dereliction.
The indefinite hiatus of reason has been announced
In empty shelves and marauding hordes,
The throat’s contraction met with scorn.
And the faces of neighbors age in dog years.
And the ones with whom blood is shared
Ache in the distance. Desolation is the breeze
That sweeps away the dust to which we return.
Desolation is the stealthiest of reapers.
Desolation is the silence that birthed us.