The black tar rain

Hence gatekeepers, the black tar rain is nigh.
Barricades and plaster mouldings retrieve little of the safeties once known.
And as they might
None shall allowed be to lie in wait for yet another sunlit eventide.

Played as music from a hateful lyre
we open the gifts of ancestors filled with moths and rusted joints.
None shall enter these gates with singing and piety
for none shall be found.

And so we angrily cut open the sides of our cattle and sheep
with the love of patterns and matted furs.
Drinking red wine is to be enjoyed but not savoured.
Pretense. Is lying a sin?

Crested tree tops shine with the glimmer of moonpaints and stardeath.
And I am alone.
Where the lone shall reign
is only the best
of places.

For now.