The Treadwheel of Death

Meandering the sparse highway of life, wide as the world.

Milling to the Treadwheel of Death, on million, million more

Puppets, sloven zombies march, some die on the way.

their corpses dragged like potato sacks by the Securitate of Death

dressed in black leather and airconditiioned motorbike helmets

coldly speculating the afterlife from their electronic synapses gleaming through their visors.

And on to the wheel, the fortune of every and many and all

each a spectral visage of the lie that has become life.

Chocked faces mesmerised by the one light

wragged wretched souls, soiled and more.

To the mountainous wheel, ten thousand tenacious blades,

bleached blood red, sky scape around and down into the milling crowd

The merry go round brings a piece of each to heaven, but all come down.

THe clouds mirror man, grey they leach the gorund below of color

without life for the sun is long dead.

The skulls and bones ground low the wheel fertilise each round

Securitate march inordinate rows, throwing the last of the bones to the wheel.

Like a rain of tears the last puppet strings fall, snuffing the dry wretched earth

Securitate plug in their corpusles'

"Mission accomplished, ground zero neutral"

Their empty suits crumple in a luxurious sigh of dust.

The wheel tears from its moorings, a ship of death, down

munching on continents like crackers

and so begins the end of that which never began.