The dead ruins are tearful
Moaning with groaning
Unutterable and immeasurable
Cup of the dead’s tears
That which quake in the boots

Past the whirlwind festering
Forbidden lampshade, lit
Up vestigial crisis how rewarded
Or recompensed in meltdown of
Time wounds on the suppurate

Why would you feast on the
Dead’s sweat. When they were
Drenched in the manna pool
Of a viral infection in the
Bloodstream and deluge of tears.

Clenched bigoted fists of
Truncheon blast car crash
With a hissing sound the
Bellowing thunderstorm
Past its stubborn ego that
Never heals hearts broken
Into piecemeal oblivion
On the hearse requiems
With iconoclastic ferocity.