Among the evolving
there's a devolution.
There is a siren
wailing the savage
song of loss.
A wave of tension,
that as it strikes
the shore of progress,
emits its high, holy
death rattle.
And oppositional forces,
motivated but unaware
that malignant aspirations
reside in futility,
suffer the universal
tendency toward disorder
as it stands firmly
in opposition of their oppression.
In these final stages,
when the thrash and temper
of humankind reveals itself
in part so ugly, so cold.
Then does the tightening
grip of mortis set in
begging for the decisive blow.
The succor they seek,
the fruit and fallout
of their belligerent designs,
can know no forever,
no perpetual peace.
And like all death throes
before them,
cling as they might,
they will leave behind naught
but the high, holy
death rattle.
Philessatry 