Logos

In this new mythology, grace is bound here in god’s pocketbook pasture
like the unknown soldier sinks into stone.  There are echoes
that have forgotten the first shout, but bounce across entropy
in ever-diminishing consequence.  And there is flesh.

It oozes across the skeleton with vile consumption, swallowing souls
and storing them belly-ward to await the acid of time.  They settle with the stones
of cherries long since picked, made smooth by abrasive virtue.  Carbon-anchored,
it is their dream to suffocate.

Men grey to oblivion while their tongues taste black and white. 
Housed under stone, words are sentenced
and execute themselves. 
In the cloth of theatre, the puppets are oblivious to strings
and dance on… dance on…

There are no curtains here, only blinds.