The End Of Time by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


they came from the pipes
they came from the pipes-
each horn bigger and greater-
shifting and squirming-
the words we were forming-
meant nothing in sight-
when they came through the night-
they came in hundreds and tens-
mightier than men-
we huddled together-
and sang-
we sang-
did we sing-
they floated-
over chapels and rivers-
they floated-
they hundled before them-
two million they were-
passing and singing –
we screamed and we prayed-
you know what they say-
no point complaining-
it’s raining with killers-
they’;re robbing the children-
they’re dying.
passageways of decomposed-
and those who rose to fix them-
perplexed in their sights-
and held on-
rose on-
rode on with their wives-
in their thoughts-
plague covers the walls-
with its filth and its fury-
worried we'd change-
we called to a –
god unlistening-

screaming and crying-
dirt leaves us hanging-
spat out –
out out-
the dead.

The leaves are dying,
Not by the hand of Autumn;
But the lack of it.