light flares
for the blind
sound drums
for the deaf
there is a
movement coming

fresh linen
for the lepers
beneath
the gnarled
branches of the old
twisted oak
a pestilent
rejoinder
from sickness
long ago

baby teeth
hang from
memory filament
to chatter
incessantly
on the foul
morn breeze
bemoaning
each tawdry
sunbeam
refracted
through
blackened dew

raised welts
prognosticate
the seething
swarm of sallow
slugs
slithering in
serpentine
slander

gather
the weak
the old
the sickly
the infirm
to form
human barricades
against the
rumbling
machines of war

let the pavement
be lined
with the
splattered
remains of
the unwashed
the unloved
the unseen
the unvisible

for this
is the vision
cast down
from the forebearers
in their
infinite wisdom
huddled in
ramshackle huts
as the elements
cut through
logical fallacies
wide enough
to house
the homeless

light flares
for the blind
sound drums
for the deaf
there is a
movement coming

a stringed quartet
of flayed corpses
pluck the ligaments
of dream
while the world
drowns
in the crude
remnants of
the last
to rule the land