to begin, a poem

The urn has shattered and the ashes are scattered like trash on the streets of a city gone madder than the wildest kegger of the frats or the brats or the last hell days of a preapocalyptic Saturn.

The dogs are on the loose hunting down the recluse whose lived far too long in his little red caboose thinking he could reach the top of a mountain of truth before sleuths and the judges strung his head through the noose.

Stars are starting to fall from the sky while the moon too soon begins to rise and wage war upon the holy one, eternally divine; God's only sun at the center of time.

Holy Spirits at the local pub.
Ladies night: Mother Mary gets in free.
Baptized in synthesized blood,
Bring a bouquet of Rosaries.

Umbrellas out.
Knees on the ground.
Pray for summercy.
Reigning cat and hound.

The Sphinx took a drink from the bathroom sink, everything else went to hell (and we'd like to think that he was dead in the casket when we buried the shrink), in a breadbasket carried by red ridinghoodwinked.

She was on her way to the retirement home
where a wolf slumbers atop a pile of bones.

-Brien



the urn has shattered by Brien is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at leaningback.blogspot.com.