Bitterness: Old Pompeii

Bitterness, bile of human scorn, its vice
congests the air, reminiscent of those
long-gone medieval Plague days, back when thrice
the ashes and dust were sung in the lows
of the chantry-by. But now, still, with all
humours replaced with physics, no belief -
the chimney boys gone, even, damned to recall
black deaths - walking in solemn-streeted grief
of Old Pompeii, the last dust only birds -
reaching to touch the crucified lives on
unevenly paved streets - I hear their words,
harrowing shakings of a shattered dawn;
cur nos? eheu, mors, non me corripis! -
in long-lost children's eyes, blank and faithless.