XXVI

Now picture this: a requiem,
the black upon the grey.
A world insane from lack of light
and decades' dark dismay.

The sun long hid, in fervour lost
to violent children's play.
The shadowless and bone-chill cold,
the black chagrin display.

In fear, we played ambition's game
and gave our trust away
to humbly set our knees to earth
and join with midnight's fray.

With craven lust for power's trust,
quintessence of our hate,
we killed our Terra Sanctum home.
Redemption comes too late.



XXVII

Ash; acrid black, a bitter taste
to wake the screaming pain,
each breath a hacking agony
to wheeze of my refrain.

Each blistered sore a flaming eye
to strip away my thoughts
and gaze upon the guilty depths
to which I dared resort.

My shattered form was animate
and muscles clung to bone,
but skin was now a blackened crisp
and burnt flesh my cologne.

The town was gone by fire and air;
a kiss blown to the sky,
black liquid burst into a bloom
to teach the dead to fly.


XXVIII

A few blinks past revenge's flames,
once more I walked alone,
my body healed by mutant genes,
my bandages cursed bones.

Grey sky now pulsed in daily time
and soon I'd see the light.
No longer were all days denied
defining noon and night.

The world, at peace without the noise
of torrid human life,
was finding health despite the hand
with which we fed it strife.

The cycle turned by bird and tree
would bear the future's get,
without bipedal interference,
each day dusk would set.


XXIX

My shadow cooled a salad shoot
thrust bravely at the clouds;
triumphant photosynthesis
had birthed despite the shroud.

I hadn't seen the shadow man
for decades; ten or more,
and in his dark I saw the light
tired Mother had in store.

The world was perfect without us.
The beauty of her form
had led me to man's final breath
to quell all chance of storm.

As dawn burst through the ashen wall
to light the first new day,
I chose a gravestone for mankind,
an outline 'gainst the grey.



XXX

Strange fruit upon a rancid tree;
a gallows grown from guilt.
A silhouette in life's expanse,
bereft of what we built.

Strange fruit upon a rancid tree
to feed the future's gain,
a rotting, flapping epitaph,
one final eldritch stain.

Strange fruit upon a rancid tree,
the end of all we made
by pillage, rape, and plunder's boot
and pride's poor serenade.

Strange fruit upon a rancid tree
so God will understand:

In desolation's aftermath,
I am the hanging man.