Ars Poetica - by Lily

Phantoms
beating them damned wings
around me

not the same breezes
that swept round the altars of man
no, not the same
the stench of vox populi

sky is as azure as ever
and the birds of plenty gather
to speak in prophetess
of not if, but when
the end of seasons comes

and all our heroes are exposed
and the madness that was propagated
in the heart of silent mountains
and of the millions of invisible questions
that rise up from the dying lands

of the emptiness that fills us
of the fillings that empty us

and of their sorrow for the road-kill fox
that lay smeared on the grassy strip
in the middle of the big road
that everyone drove by
for three days
that no one picked up

man, soldier on ugly, no heart
no pause

~Lily