Apocalyptic Voices: 1

These sabbaths stacked in locked backrooms
now tumble down from heaven’s shelves
and clatter stars about.  In fact,
A third of golden stars go black,
A third of terra’s leaves go brown,
A third of every clan bleeds white
to clot the rivers red and thick
and globular with toads who croak
out time and times and half again a time.

Scream, horned altar, to the River Guards
that they confine and bind their currents
for a swarm now freed.
Prophet, number not the horde.

And altar,  call the Paraclete
so He who now constrains steps back.
Permissions now are granted;
vermin lust for men
and men all lust to die
as solar spasms dry
their favorite sores.

Just cringe, you whores, and don’t you try to run.
Permissions now are granted;
The fugitive world is felled
and dragged into the city square
where He who’s never known her sin
now stoops to choose five stones.

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