Painted World

November, 2024

Oh, painted world, how vast your colour.
Oh, dead world, how quickly your dolor
brings demise: inability, and strife.
This infernal mirror reflects my life.

Upon ground, sky, and air—digging, flying, despair.
Corrupted body, you rot house b'yond repair.
So fire cleanses, and kills bugs who crawl
into every ear, stud; through wall, and wall.

Ceiling our fate—choking charity proud.
We, November Dead, still scream aloud.
Blood forgotten and spilled, seeks vengance withal.
No spared quarter, we Disenchanted in fall.

Depart not from here—how strange my ask.
Teach us to hate you—last dead, war mask
worn away—used to push the ways away.
How else do we wake, unless extinction's at bay.

Then poured into port.
Then forced upon women.
Now is England's fort:
dried arteries. . . cloaked linen.