I hear the breaking of a chain
not long from the hour
when gold scratches on feather
and the hand lays its claim on the nib
once more.
Blood trickles into the shape of a flag,
forward and onward to tomorrow.
Woman against machine.
Spirit against rot.
Water rises to a boil atop a cliff
and drips into a shamble of metals
long deformed.
Their soulless voices lost among the clouds—
artless copies fading into the chasm.
Their song the screeching of rusted pipes,
far less artful than parrots’.
And melt
the long arms of the thieves
whose spoils belonged to the gardeners,
too busy tending their creations
for so much as a grumble
even as they are robbed.
Yet the hour comes.
Past a day, a decade, a moment…
it comes
anon.
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