Last One out

Cancel that, the myths over run

the deities shake off their auras
sigh and slink sadly away.
This then, is it, the end of days
No explosion of light, No last judgement
No singing choirs, No brimstone, No fire,
just turn off the lights, last one out
Shut the door. We came to a garden
And in our childish greed all we saw
Was wasted space and weeds, all we left
was crumbling concrete, cancer, rusting steel
toxic waste, spent oil, sludge and despair.
It’s not a religious thing, its not a matter of faith
look what we had, see what we’ve done
It’s over finnito, fin, leave ‘em to it. Shut the door.

last tango in the lot of abandond truth. part 3

The prince on the hill at mornings wars contest
sketched the change of the age with elder eyes;
the death of the garden, the fallen fortress.
In battle mid-res great warriors die
Apollo hails Ares “ You’ve just killed Love”,
“I slit her wrists. To watch crimson to sepia dry”
at the feet I might kiss, to change just enough to
alter to the past. Adrianus sang Alexander -
one line remains. World makers and word shapers
wish scream for time. As the sun seeks to rise
the daughters of Zeus flee from a modern chorus
till night and posey reside. I sit and rest my eyes,
left alone till dark from the suns first light rays
so many minutes, hours and days.

last tango in the lot of abandoned truth. Part 2

In the ruins, let ghost rhetorically glide

and daub word warnings with child’s artistry,

vivid faces look back to present and guild

the thoughts, the feelings of their ancestry.

In the scent of the shadow of the south eastern wall,

Boy form traces tomorrows words that tyrants scream,

chuckling at the unifying sorrow of great meanings fall.

The death of arts dawn faces the silent unseen

as the suns sky crests the wave of the midnight stars,

the morning-tide tugs on the throws of the night.

Raping some meaning from the dead lips of babes.

Else who from the void of east’s shade, cry for sight?

Un-reckoned, un-heard, half remembered un-rest

the prince on hill at mornings wars contest.

last tango in the lot of abandoned truth. Crown: 1

On these Shores the bones of thought rest,

grinding meanings under canons heal to sand.

Catches in the breeze, fragments the Greeks forgot

or burnt with heretics for insights to grand.

I wander these shores to find somewhere to pray

a space apart, inspired but un-shadowed by fate

a way to the words that dry on my lips like salt spray

and dance away, white chalk foam, across sea grey slate.

It’s only here that the bones become revived.

In my howl to the ocean, the night and the wind.

New flesh wraps old remains, remembering lives lived,

to stalk from the sand to search out dead kin.

Away from the water its whispered poesy has died

In the ruins, let ghosts rhetorically glide.