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Era Vulgaris
In the midst of prophecy the atheist sheds a tear that falls, falls with the dawn of a curse fulfilled.
Our beloved Sol, who once fed and nurtured trees, now shines down in mockery upon the parched gray Earth.
Bodies, gaunt and languid, labor to live in air thick with murk yet thin.
In the midst of prophecy trees melt and wolves bay in the realm of a dog's day.
Rivers—dried blood banks— yield up their fossils and sterile, muddy beds to dead gods.
The Land fills with a choking stench: carrion, parasites, pestilence plague us.
In the midst of prophecy Man's folly becomes a burning sword tempered by the white light of a moth's flame.
Copyright © 2008 by Kevin Dunn |