The Dying Fantasy
The pyre ash of dreams glows
most brilliant shades of righteous red
in midnights of broken glass symphony,
in sweeping up still crystal mornings;
they cough, wheeze, spit up lung
sulfer sacrements, some kind of
greatness.
The songbook hymnals hewn of stardust,
secular rhymes of just dying, of lands
just beyond hilltop horizons, of worker's
paradise and history's end
that never arrive but with asterisks,
but with hardened faces, rivers mixed
with blood and life road's ice.
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