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We bleed to but a low degree
‘fore poets write a eulogy
how life was just a shopping spree,
death’s cloud quintessential,

How we must clear the Earth’s debris
and kill midnight’s complexity
and breathe the breath of standing tree
to reach our high potential.

The cold, hard earth’s asperity
drives harder to insanity
and whims are but profanity
we insecurely guard,

From gasps of foul toxicity
of unvaried simplicity
with all our small humanity –
which is but just a shard.

Tomorrow happens, all the same,
moved by a force we cannot name,
and still! And still! The lonely flame
shines through the night’s opaque.

Let “justice” rule through “law” of blame,
let yesterday still feel no shame
let heretics proudly proclaim
the lives at burning stake.

The pressure builds, a scar leaks red,
to bleed where many else have bled
and vex as, blooming, starts to spread
through the rumbling xenoliths –

From Heaven’s zone, the angels dread
and from their faces, tears are shed
as builds, from unknown corpses, dead –

Builds from bodies that paid Death’s tithes
engraved with sins – a monolith.