The Modern Epic

Virgil pumps the bellows. With tiny rings

Of smoking death escaping the mouth of

Hell through the pillars of lost hope. The pit

Darkens to a glowing black heart. Our

Bodies corrupted with scale. Removed. Scraped.

Beaten. Shoved back into the furnace. Souls

Bare again to the flame. To be shaped. To

Be burned. To be beaten into rings and

Quenched in the still falling rain. To be worn

On the fingers of Sitwell and Osborn

Alike. Each ring a blast of flame black as

Coke and clinker. Coal and ash. A postwar

Deconstruction. The world, blank and godless.

The Antichrist suffering from old age.

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