The sun disappears,
slice by slice, bleeding red
across a razor blade horizon.
'You are the chosen ones', he said
and they drank until their tongues
hung purple and buzzards
sang hymns at their upturned feet.
Down the street, the preacher
speaks about Armageddon.
Shall we gather at his river, too?
Helter Skelter dripping from white walls
behind her, writ with her dead friends' blood,
his clan killed as she begged, swollen with child.
The seas shout their protest, crash
against cold glass-gray shores.
Crabs scuttle. Like us, too late
to retrieve what has already receded,
but Death still stalks earth's crust
with steady feet. Hero to some.
Master of all. Maestro for the swelling
vibrato of buzzard serenades.
For those of you too young to remember
the mass suicides led by Rev Jim Jones,
Google Charlie Manson
if you don't know about his horrors.
To hear recording of a buzzard's song,
Art: Katikati , NZ, Sunset by Kit Wilson
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