fire sermons from the old world no.4

denouement cloaked  in frozen bliss, icy fingertips dipped in ashen-sickness… a series of vague memories, poorly-lit, going away… hymns from survivors crackle and hiss, drone and whine, collapse and come apart… lost faces wrapped in funeral shrouds, staring long into the impossible steppe…

warehouse beside warehouse in rows, bombed-out, ruined, abandoned; dead… floodlights illuminate the blast-walls in the long distance… out here we are stricken, scattered and cut-up, broken and unbalanced… desolation measured in muted hues… the worlds we destroyed, the worlds we lost…

nearby a fire-sermon falters, its memory fading as freight-cars ferry the wounded and dead… smoke filled skies, whole cities bombed… along dark corridors misery looming… upon wet brick ash-lilies lay in steady waiting… slow utterances of whispered hopes faint and timid…

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