Raping the dawn
of splendor, imbibing
the servitude of countless ages
dressed in red.

It was the down sickness
of the times scorched
with the dreadnauts
of the descent from dominion.

The destitute stars
ring in your head;
they bring with them the flicker
of an astral answer

to a terrestrial question:

where shall the meek meet,
to die again, under the
vacuity of a
winter moon?