Plan Be- Doth Thou Protest Too Much?
Thomas A. E. Hesketh



Does not the irony flake as rust? dried red
as the Blood Moon, lit by one hundred million miles of
reflected light, staring unblinking upon one pale albeida tinged
celestial sphere, fixed in half shadow, frozen in myth, down upon
disbelieving masses, without scanning the pain and doom, carried along
the arc of the plane of the ecliptic by the measure of time, trailing
the Terminator; darkness devouring light, as salt-laden
and relentless as an incoming tide, licking the life from
the air and ash, desert horizon
to forbidden sea, verdigris,
bleached bone, fetid water,
stagnant pools fragrant
with waste, as mute cries
protest, moot echoes clatter,
turning shattered shards of
glass, posters melt into
slogans:

Encrusted dreams unite!
Flies of the apocalypse have fled.