Birth Of The Antichrist

Slow in arcing death,
lonely as the last swallow's breath.
Falling in darkness,
twist and collapse.
Through the shafts
of ubiquitous night.

Down we plunge to a cold wet dungeon.
Lost in wildnernessess found.
Soil on the ground,
and smells of fungus.
A trumpet sounds,
and feint timpanic drum.
The echoes begin in reverse.
He approaches, the black horse in the heart.
The first rain drop falls,
and the first ripple starts.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.