i can feel
it change
it's in
these shifting
seasons.

it's in
the orange glow
of the cities
beneath the
billowing
skies.

it's in
the trees
on fire,
in the
shrieking
of the night.

in the lonely
call of the
last birds
that refuse
to take
the sky.

the blades
are upon
our nape and
i can feel
the change.

the shadows fall
long and merciless
over the dust of
this brutality
and your hopeless
despair.
all you are
is under siege.

at the end of
your dreams you
wake up with the
taste of iron on
your tongue and
your heart's metallic
clang beating a
terrible rhythm.

those roofs
that our
fathers
built

have all
tumbled in.
cinders
glowing

in our
simmering
rage

the rafters
caved
in over

the blistered
rotted
floors

where we've
lain like
mute

dogs
whimpering
and begging

for the
hunger

for the
darkness

to subside

all that
remained
was the
ash. falling
gently
upon our
lashes
and lids
as we
closed
our eyes
against
the laden
greyness.
and into
the final
slumber we
sloped away
with the
embers
softly
hissing.

awakened to
things falling
from the skies
filling the
streets,
drowning
the sidewalks
in blood
and heavy,
broken

hearts.

this is not new.

this is
not

new!

for ages we
have screamed
into and
through
these long
nights of
bewilderment
and horror.

yet,
every time
these falling
horrid
things
take us
by surprise,
crumpling
our measly
souls
of tin.

leaving us
marveling at
the spurious
novelty
of our
own

iniquity.

in these grey
mornings
searching
for hymns
of triumph,
and truth,
and the helpers
but alas there
is none to be
or to have.

so i brace
myself, for
the darkness
swells.

disintegration.
all this here
moves toward
its end.

it is there.
in the whispered
hush of
leafless trees.

in the obliterating
light at the
close of the
penultimate night.

ready yourself
for that knife
because in this
endeavor you
have no say and
of this you've
dreamt big dreams.
in such sorrowful
reverie the skin
slips from the
bone and in this
wasting you've
found rejoice
that now they've
left nothing of
you. a death
cinematic
in its enormity.
totalitarian
in its finality.

driving past
the solitude
of that night,
ready yourself
for what may
come forth
from the dawn
slit horizon.

the smoke fills
in quickly,
the day blurs
what the trees
have left
behind. there
is a little
pang of in
the hollow
beneath your
ribcage.

as you
dream of sun
lit memories
trembling in
the wells of
your eyes.