The Rough Beast

You have made your way
from worm to man,
and much in you is still worm.
—Nietzsche

The rough beast turns
in restless slumber,
I feel the sky shutter
in its horrific dream;

Such great mouthings
of Right and Wrong,
since schickelgruber--
blood still dripping
from the stolid poppy.

The Children of the Dead

Trapped like flies
In sticky sap
The more they struggle,
The more they collapse;

Enveloped with guilt,
Like a burning ooze,
With no reprieve,
They endure the past;

Nowhere to go--
Neither forward
Nor back--

Like the desert,
Parched and cracked,
They can only wait
For the winter rain.