The Dead (R3)

When darkness churns in the aether
Like the thick soup of a swamp frothing
With the mulch of a clipped jaw's howl,
And the blue flames of the stars burn on
Beneath the eaves like a hag-faced
Simmering cauldron, and the solitude
Of a lonely thought reflects on the limns of the earth,

The dead creep, in slumbering hordes, unmasked
Amassing faces of life's grim fête: how hungry
Are the dead, ruining eyes that totter
After pulses in the blood-rimmed shade, fangs
Drooling for sap, greedy limbs that grasp
Like a child nibbling at juicy breasts. For juice

They pick through the blades of damp grass, pale
By the ache of the moon, to an unlit
Vastness of crumbling diamonds, alleys
Shrugging with broken glass, towers buckling
Under the gravity of fallen stars,
The ghettoes where they lived, searching
Like a hand that feels the dark for something it forgot.

Do the dead forget us? Can we remember these dead
Faces, rent wide as molten wax into a scream
Of pure void, brimmed with spilling brains, whose ingenuous pallor
Betrays a cold fear of the haunted air,
Shadows effervescent of the earth?

The Dead (R1)

When darkness churns in the aether
Like the thick soup of a swamp, boiling
With the mulch of a clipped jaw's howl,
And the blue flames of the stars burn on
Under the eve like a hag-faced
Simmering cauldron, and the solitude
Of a lonely thought reflects on the limns of the earth,

The dead creep, in slumbering hordes, unmasked
Amassing faces of life's grim fête: how hungry
Are the dead, ruining eyes that totter
After pulses in the blood-rimmed shade, fangs
Drooling for sap, greedy hands that grasp
Like a child nibbling on juicy breasts. For juice

They pick through the blades of damp grass, pale
By the cloak of the moon, to unlit
Ruins, streets of crumbling diamond, alleys
Of broken glass and fallen stars, empty bazaars,
The ghettoes where they lived, searching for a sign,
Like a hand that grasps after something it forgot.

Do the dead remember us? Can we forget these dead
Faces, ripped wide like molten wax into screams
Of pure void, the brim of spilling brains, ingenuous pallor
Betraying their fear of the haunted air,
And the clouds that surge from the earth?

The Dead (O)

When darkness churns through the aether
Like the thick soup of a swamp, boiling
With the mulch of clipped howls' fire
And the blue flames of the stars burn on
Under the eve, like a hag-faced
Simmering cauldron, and the solitude
Of a lonely thought paces the limns of the earth,

The dead creep, in stumbling hordes, unmasked,
Amassing faces of life's grim fête: how hungry
Are the dead, sunken eyes meant only to peer
Into oblique shadows for bleating food, their fangs
Drooling for blood, hands grasping like a child
Nibbling at the juicy breasts. For juice

They wander the spear-grass, damp, dumb, peering
Into the cloak of the moon; through unlit
Ruins of prosperous towns, their empty bazaars,
The houses they bought, searching for a sign,
Something to remember, or something they forgot.

Do the dead remember us? Do we forget the dead?
The faces, ripped into screams of pure void,
The brim of spilling brains, pallor of genius,
All betray the fear between the haunting aether,
And the wispy smoke of the earth.