A Cold Going We’ll Have of It


In the ending hour
when the cloud of light
leaves my temple
and I am become
a stone cold Ezekiel;
my skin sheened
a waxy green precursor
to its’ rotting exodus to earth.

When blood pools
in stilled organs
and the last pulse ripples
through gelatinised veins,
the worm of me
will wriggle
in fading volts of thought,
in joyless acceptance
of the surety
of no New Jerusalem this night.

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