Furnaces of the Gods

An apocalyptic vision of the world burning and giving way to its own demonic creatures.

The apocalypse is red in anger –
Not from the blood poured or stained-teeth demons,
But from the rage that only fire has:
A tormenting, longing blaze of rage.
From the sky, leaps flames (they have
Their own kind of joy, twisted around bodies),
Trails as rain mutates for dust;
Tears are snatched when drops
Disintegrate, their traces, footprints
To call an ashen world together.
Ugly stardust smears the sky grey.
Hear the broken hiss as worlds combine,
Hydraulic buildings tore apart,
Petty  bricks from false foundations;
Peeling beyond half, they are the bridge
For the others to capture:
Mechanic limbs extend and stretch –
A way to taste the dead living ones.
Great engines roaring, turbines churning,
Bearing each opus as the old world might
Bear a child: each moulded evil
Is coaxed with little more than two
Charred fingers waving a kiss
Into kinship of the dying ground.
They celebrate with mouth into grunt,
The rounded O and moan of an orifice-less
Hunger eating away at fallen life.
With no point of emotional entry,
The stand merciless, crumbling pillars.
They carve the ground with dullard eyes.
From deep within comes the initiation:
The furnace blast with its picture
Of last November perfection
In forgotten fragments forged away.
Yet, from those bodies, dark with greed,
Climbs forth the generation-seed,
A pinprick, no more to incite –
An idea, that from the heathen mass
Will surge a figure to soak away
The lusting vice of red ones.

The End

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