An Epoch Ellipsis - The Amenta

Two wings of the choir

Crushed by Te Deum and Dies Irae

Roting crowds clamber

Not with a whimper but a whine

A poor cur’s lapse

Square dwellers begging for change

An arid spring

Cold, unmarked grave

Birds flown to entropical climes

Sore ire cysts sick eyes saw

Poised upon collapse

A poor cur’s lapse

And with a pauper’s lisp

In slip’s apocalypse

The lying and the lamb

Unlikely bedfallows

Cloistered bones, now free

Hung from streetlights, gibbering

Tongue-tied tastemakers

Sage and sinnerman

Where ya gonna run to?

Babel on

One final brass blast

Of an arc/angles geomatria

Seize to exist

Yea, judge me

But parse sentences

Heartbeaten, youthless

The long liquid list

Yea, judge me

But parse sentences