black blood white skin an anaemic reversal of identity in death
sheared golden fleece scalped left for dead inside Collosei as infinite in suffering as they finite in time
the measure of a man’s days are brief and blinded like the sun setting and dragging down every tendril of burned hope in a swirling mass leaving the sky jet black in poverty
a brutal destiny like the foreshortened Christ is phantomed in grey sculpted raiments which ebb and flow yet rip the eye
the river Styx carries its dread cargo for filthy lucre
the poor can never afford even a single obol the merest coin of the realm secreted under their doomed tongues guillotined to wander the dreamy shores of purgatory for ever
for an obol they are bankrupted
then silent as the amputees of speech
gladiators fall and dust the faces of their brethren colliding with the earth
they bid adieu to a harsh world
a dominion of perdition
as the populace thirsts for more blood to be shed and saturate the planet
rains dilute a sanguine banquet yet salve no conscience
as conjurers of grief distant as hope
there must be hope, in this life or the next
Flynnpoetry 