Flags of Ruin

Flags of Ruin


Flags of ruin
hung on bearpoints,
driven screaming
into the thorns,
tattered and cracking
like ratty old flags caught,
like any old spook
in the hawthorn caught,
damned with ears nailed open,
always open
to the shreiks
and howls
of the wind,
the stupid,
mindless,
arrogant wind
delighting
in howling.

Silver trumpet notes wait there
to die.
The bright souls
of the green leaves weep
and shudder,
offer water to one
with a hole
in his belly.
God never saves the right.
All have died.

This rolling world
takes us with it,
regardless.
We are blind
in the abyss,
coughing in the dust.
The stars fine white threads
too long exposed.

No true north,
the Pole Star
a whirly-gig
out of control,
astrolabs,
sextants,
children thrown off.

No.
When I die
let me die
among my own.
Not among
these fat trees,
howling winds,
water on its way
to nowhere,
these green leaves
without hands.

Rick Mobbs 2008