pillared deities draped
in a mantle of cracked skin,
russet robes coiled at their feet,
crooked fingers reaching
towards a pale heaven
in lament-
to winter-laden clouds,
hoping to wring
from their mercy
one last drop of autumn,
laden with rain and colour.
It slowly seeped o’er all,
and framed those headless angels
in fire.
The groaning of tongue-less mouths
faintly heard,
a rasp, a hiss:
echoes of parched throats
whose blood litters the ground
in sweetly foetid clots.
Few things in this sphere
are as fragrant
as their dying breath.
Haloed by the tempest,
their shadows tracing gloom-
I saw that they feared judgment,
and in that fear
found solace.