By Christopher Ferguson
Wooden skeletons in fields of dirt
Wind below the rotten Earth
Light pales through the cirrus clouds
While the steel wrapped boxes race around.
The overcast of raining sleet
The oligarchs and dead elite
The spikes of ice and nails of clay
The storm is gone, now let us prey.
The season of the dying sun
The shadows fall below the hum
Of speeding trains and wailing brakes
The freezing of the northern lakes.
The cauldron and attracting glow
The coffin bleached with laden snow
Wind away the fields of dirt
Skeletons rot into the Earth.
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