Mausoleal Drift

We speak in fretful, frantic, timorous tones

Prophesy

We weep for a gilded age

Larded and garlanded with what?

What murder

What horror

What lavish surfeit of grief bequeathed?

Eulogize o'er the ever-nearing end

Clinging ever tighter

To this million-sorrowed breast

But what dreader fears fester

Than Armageddon denied?

Better to quicken this immaculate decline

And so from paradise blows the mingling storm

With too-known horrors foretold

Lo, what dire fate do we mourn

When grimmer tides threaten

To persist to ebb and flow?

Left to founder, tempest-toss'd

In blood-dimmed torrents

Lost