Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Beauty Set at Naught;The Colourless Skies

the carts roll on, the tumbrils, 
over Imagination's slain in the stain
of the sunset of Beauty itself

sad angels exclaim oh who
remains to count them all
in the twilight of the Stage,

how will our children judge us,
by what moons;

the ungilded compasses 
of the ruined?
all those left fending 

in the Flood arkless and wounded, wounding
the rainbows, having been bartered
and sold for nought.

and what have they got
to show for this
when they've gotten it?

(the accusers).

mary angela douglas 27 april 2016