It is a time of wind and rain and in the green wood the voices of the dead coagulate and skim this edge of consciousness. It is a time of heavy-hearted dread. It is the day of the dead. And what have we done Since the last, lingering death? Nothing, nada, no The wicked still prosper, And the rich come and go And the world spins the same As ever it did before And the poor are as they were they before Footprints in the snow. And as this fog surrounds us And the mist is everywhere Let these hands of merely humans Meet in this thin air.
The rapture was on prowl to get the believers. You knew what you should not have known about the baby blue. Aphasia, experiences an impulsive violence, beyond the dead. Bionic hands to capture the moment of swapping uremia with swastika.