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The Day Is Dead
The fifteen judges sit,
dark suited around the stone table,
ringed and carved with brass stars.
Incanted, the words of force.
The hoods of crows line the windows.
Seven, of course.
The censer swings low,
and the red sky hums with insane fortitude,
beyond the triangular holes.
Rocks breathe, and hum,
and crack, and crumb.
The word is said,
the day is dead.
The fifteen wait, with eyes drawn closed.
Feathers unmoved shine with violet hue,
a slightly reflective cast.
The shadows dance, and cry.
Why did the day stay to die?
Why did it stay to die?
To die?
To die?
Why did perfection have to end?
The hammer slammed, the judgement made.
The eagle cries.
The white horse screams and runs.
The sun is dead, the moon she comes.
The moon of blood in scarlet red.
The moon is cut, the sun is dead.
All things die.
The day and sun,
the stars,
the moon,
and you,
and I.
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