All sentient life that fills the moat
is the soup we all are.
We are the coat hangers in the hall
waiting for the party to start,
the dangling skeleton on the cross
waiting for the evermore.

Waves of poor claim their right
across the mother continent,
dark winds speak of the dead
where worship no longer applies
and hatred putrefies the bones,
creaking across the country.

I see dead men riding to sea
collecting bitterness and big heads
in days of early winter dread.
I see mothers cursing their sons
and children lost in persuasion.
It is a dark season indeed.