Prophecy

Mine this vein of ore.

Metal running through a sheet of rock.

Follow it to the point

where the shaft plunges into darkness.

 

Death will come, certain

as a caved-in path, the gasp of yellow throats,

the shower of carbon rock.

Life will snuff itself out, branding holes

 

where tiaras gleamed. Words will flee

while they can. Eyes gummed

with blood, you will sleep,

reaching for the tunnel at the end of the light.

 

From Absent Muses