Friday, October 7, 2011

Final Days

We shall all become cleansed when
we find the car,
nestled amongst the rubble and the ashes,
down in the alley,
where the wild root grows.

I saw the search-lights
reflected on your sooty skin,
and smelled the kerosene
in your clothes,
and pictured you in flames
among the art-work,
a come-hither smile on your lips.

When they call our numbers
on the megaphones,
we fix our hair in the reflection
of a cracked store-front window,
put on our best faces,
march two by two.

At the last hour,
you will be made powerful and terrible,
you will find beauty within the bones.
At the last hour,
I will become something

Recorded version of the poem; Words by me, music by Luke Willis

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