They have pled their case
already, wept off half their lengths
and hang their tears on wilted spines.
All their prayers have sighing fled
the bleary-rimmed eye of the flame-

Now only black clouds pucker
upon their brows, and how certain
from their twisted maws, roars
a battle cry,
how sudden as a seashell
brought to ear. Hear!

Thirty spearheads
slicing in the sweating air.
Is it fear that makes
the glazed walls shake?
One by one, they are
pulled down – kneeling, keeling,
Wholly uprooted; lie splayed out
like dissected limbs on a blood-field-
a deformed white monument.
Dimpled orange motes crawl
in waxy cupped-hand stubs,
like swatted flies, before
being snuffed out, at last.


FOOTNOTE: I’ve been writing this poem in snatches for almost a year now, and it refuses to come together. I don’t think it’s possible to mend it anymore, so here’s posting an unedited work-in-progress. Might work on it later though, who knows.


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