An Epoch Ellipsis

Two wings of the choir
Crushed by Te Deum and Dies Irae
Roting crowds clamber
Not with a whimper but a whine
A poor cur’s lapse
Square dwellers begging for change
An arid spring
Cold, unmarked grave
Birds flown to entropical climes
Sore ire cysts sick eyes saw
Poised upon collapse
A poor cur’s lapse
And with a pauper’s lisp
In slip’s apocalypse
The lying and the lamb
Unlikely bedfallows
Cloistered bones, now free
Hung from streetlights, gibbering
Tongue-tied tastemakers
Sage and sinnerman
Where ya gonna run to?
Babel on
One final brass blast
Of an arc/angles geomatria
Seize to exist
Yea, judge me
But parse sentences
Heartbeaten, youthless
The long liquid list
Yea, judge me
But parse sentences