A Cold Wind

A cold wind blows.
It’s dark out.

Behind the pale-faced statues
And the stone-cold sarcophagi of martyrs,
Buildings filled with the ghosts of old memories
Decay until the rebar skeletons of dreams moan.

A cold wind blows.

The streets are alive with death:
Listen as the Lethe screams through the screaming brains,
Mnemosyne a myth of in unsubstantiation
And all verdicts of Minos point to the ennui of Asphodel.

It’s dark, getting darker.

Broken souls of dead things crawl in loneliness;
Naked, screaming, aching, hungry. They clutch their
Dying children in their rotting arms, too weak and frail
To find shelter from the impending storm.

A cold wind blows. It’s darker, now.

The storm in the distance heralds a day without the sun.
Misery and torment follow in its wake,
And no land is held sacred. No land is spared.
Elysium lies at the far end of tall tale.

And a thousand lonely suicides watch from Tartarus
As the world ends.