Night falls upon the last day.
Village banners draped across
shattered glass.
At the helm stands
the broken beast,
casting out the last
of the peace dwelling saints.
The mindless masses
gather at the square,
screaming for production to begin in the bowels of the virgin forest.
Men who live in quiet desperation,
sharpen crucifixes to impale the righteous,
who were always more than happy,to beat the dead horse,
at the altar where the stable once stood.





Mandi





scribing! Glad I stopped by to read!








































































157 old applause
