The procession,
following…
after;
the hearse,
are, previous sins;
absolved,
by – chapter,
and, verse.

They each,
mourn;
loss, and, gain,
by – affirmation.

And, have,
won,
their likeness,
via turned creation.

Proverbially speaking,
they each talk,
of lives well,
and, poorly lived.

Of good,
and, bad times;
the taken, and, mistaken,
sorely gives.

The bereft,
cling on;
to memories,
whilst the sinners;
let sin go.

All, are; in need;
of remedies,
their condition; purely human;
wrings eternal…

When letting go.

The dying embers,
of the summer-sun,
lay, like barbecue coals,
underfoot.
It’s been one hell – of a season,
peppered;
with grief-stricken – condiments,
and, gruesome – herbs.
Parties, and, meetings,
where sapient meat,
became disturbed.
Flame flashes rashers,
shanks, loins, and, many rarer cuts.
Heart-shaped burgers;
bitten, burning, and, dripping.
Blaze-shaped feelings;
all sweating;
profusely, and, perturbed.

But, now, the cold sets in.
The rotten flesh,
is covered in flies.
Larvae absorb,
and, consume the sin.
As the lambs blood,
cools and dries.
Landfill sites fester,
– ever fuller.
Teen suicides, and, stabbings,
on the up.
The brightest futures,
growing duller,
by social media’s; poisoned;
overflowing cup.

A forgetful fable,
soon emerges;
of a summer; subjugated,
by sentimentality – so weak.

But, what lay beyond,
the sunny, grassy verges.
Is the glacial-hard-truth…

One frozen hell.

An infernal blizzard of a life;
blackly frosted;
burning, berserk, and, bleak.

Cast out,
into the caliginous;
gloaming.

To the snarly,
towering street lamps.

Stationary,
and, flickering;
eyes of yellow,
that turn,
the night-sky, into,
a den of wolves.

Howling,
yowling comets,
and, stalking stars,
creep surreptitiously,
lifting, south-facing,
neck hairs.

In a desperate, despairing
Lupine dance,
of; torrential raindrop tears,
and, tumid, cloudy faced,
embarrassment.

The wolfpack claws
at worn, and, torn,
thoughts.
Making;
a moonlit meal,
of an already,
full-
plate.

And, in the midnight witching hour,
the only solace, to be found,
is in, an; outcasted;
lone-wolf.

Alone, yet, bravely; scintillated, by lunar luminescence.

Casting prophetic, portented; shadows, anew.

Without; a family, a care, or, a past.

Where, have all, the heroes, gone?

A sniveling thought,
of a hero’s;
destruction,
comforts;
a cowardly mind,
defect, and, fraught,
in design,
and, made fairytale
endings,
begin to malfunction.

Yet, the heroes –
stretch past,
future manifestation,
as the snakes,
in the grass,
lay,
to measure their size,
presenting, rattle tailed;
lies,
and, parodied exuviations.

Why, do heroes, only exist, in books, films, and, song?

The true-self, is;
heroic,
and, wholesome action;
sublime,
steadfast belief,
becomes stoic,
when soul, and, spirit;
combine.

So, ready;
your righteous,
take aim;
your ambition,
fire at all;
with your kindness,
create;
a virtued tradition.

When, will heroes; number, one million, strong?