Monologues

Stranded again at the edge of the earth,
into heavy sighs and colored skies
On the island, the customs wave,
like fields of grain, winter wheat,
against the setting sun
Pockmarked intentions, lining the village
along the roads great crowds of fools,
cheering the burning of sage
Falling apart at the seams, the scarecrow,
in the tiny garden, as
greedy, stabbing mouths devour
humanity itself, a puddle at best
As the pea-soup fog lifted, the bones
were all that was left behind,
a grim reminder of days to come

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