Postscript

we don’t sing marching songs

as we’re herded

to wherever it is we’re going

communication verboten

coded messages are a problem

there’s no more hallelujah chorus

the only music on the jukebox

is the rasp of the grinding wheel

weeping

and the gnashing of teeth

the ground is slippery

with the blood of angels

sacrificed in silence

scattered in pieces

human jigsaw puzzles as warning

where to look

the eyes you meet

are as gruesome as the ground

no comfort lives in the gaze

of the frightened

the world is wreathed

in a fog of breath

stolen from the dragon

it clouds the brain fills the mouth

rusty tongues tell no tales