Shepherds of the flock
Blind to themselves
Slowly erode the pine
From coffins dragged
Across the Burren of time
A process of deflation
Stacks of new souls
Selected by whim
Sold a false future
To sledge on the rock
Day and night
Night and day
Death by topical toxins
The soul’s battery
Drained to an extreme,
Its own acid asphyxiates
All hope
No words for the dead
No thanks or golden watch
Before each coffin door closes
Only an escort to the ferry
Wooden nickels for the ride
Destination:
Anywhere but here
Eyeballs, like sea glass,
Wash up on the shore
To recognize lost friends
Picked up by what’s next
To wait in a new line of coffins
Battery’s new amps for old
New amps.
For old.
