Monotony of hollow tones,
Of used and bruised and
broken bones,
And languid blood and
flaccid flesh.
The starlight paints a
cheerless clef
Unsung by thrashing
thunderclap,
Unheard by howling
tempest, deaf,
Undone by cloudy overlap.
Aroused, the crescent
nightly eye,
With second-hand
incandescence
She peeks and seeks to
satisfy
A grim, morbid
concupiscence.
The bayonet still yearns
for red,
The trigger craves another
touch,
The turret wants the
cannons fed
The Creature, just a
modest crutch.
It witnesses a game of die
Among the tickled gods
of men:
To bury or to let it cry,
Or mend it just to break
again.
As lips eke out a final
plea,
Mortality and Death elope,
The soulless ghouls all
dance in glee,
And celebrate the death of
Hope.
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