the last

Bygones will not be bygones
Until winds swallow you and
Imprison you in western lands

Where the earth is cracked and empty
And the sun never rises, only sets
And you are lacking swords and hands


A rustle of feathers, buried in the oily sea


Left to wander, parched and dust-like
Over the ashes of this burned Rome
Until your feet find seven hills and climb

Over just more rocks and rubble
Banished, you are the last of the last
And sentenced to life after time


You have no eyes


A blade of dry grass, still rooted
In something somehow, provides once-lost
Glimmers of hope, but you pluck it, snatch it up and admire its fading green beauty



And on top of the seventh hill is the flower of ebony that was planted in Eden
Roots deep in the life-stream, sucking the
Last vestiges of vitality and dimming the light of heaven

The rusting deathflower
Petals coarse and dry like your lips
Your dusty lips

And you plucked the last blade of grass, didn’t you




(written May 3rd. This is the second draft. It's not quite there yet.)