Night's Air

we will all be spirits, just ghostly songs
from a sad flautist piping all alone
on a world of driftwood, wind and bone
soil scraped down to sand and stone
not a creature living, not plant nor crone
for these sins on Earth we can't atone



respect is outmoded, dated and dead
we haven't such luxury in this new era, no
events are exciting and fill mortals with dread
but it's all just part of the overlong show
and what they won't get through enough of their heads
is that humans are dependent on snow



this cricket cacaphony
batters all our senses
they endless drone nocturnally
and look like barbs from fences
black but grey all filthy and dusty
only death or deafening could end this