age of good, poem

When the grey moon begins to sink into the shameful perspex of space

The consummation of inauguration is finite trails of thought

Justica’s gaze shall smite the odes of man

And man shall say deities proclaim the word of hate

While the pure crow sings her watchful lullaby

And the souls of time and the yet to be known

Burden us all

With their painless sorrow and crippled touch

Fonts of wisdom and musty thought

Flow from the globules of human consciousness

Tearing down the bonds of brotherhood

Bringing to an end, the age of good.