Silence By The Horns

The horns and streamers of a new king
blast across the sky pews. He takes his crown,
and we scream his name, and we hope
he ends the plague.

Did you hear? He placed her on a bed of leaves,
burnt them all to make a tea, steeped it down
and drank the queen. Yes,
she was a traitor, but...

The roads are paved with vile signs,
deathly runes for me and mine,
searing fire, blazing pyres,
corpses piling; not much time.

The horns and streamers of a new king
now choke on empty air. The sky pews
sit empty, the crowds home, or worse,
dead. He takes his crown, and did you hear,
the last king was fed to rats?
Yes, he was a traitor, but...

The nights grow longer, the plague comes stronger,
wagons of the dead pile dead by the number
in the furthest ditches, oiling up
the brightest pitches, soiling views
from sky pew riches.

The horns and streamers of a new king,
never come. Did you hear,
or was it imagination? No,
it's all gone, now. The horns
rusted shut, with the streamers strewn
on plague-grave tombs, the rotten womb
of kingdom come.