Omega :

Whitest fire, was the crystal water
of the cold morning light, the evil air
devoid of heat, lay guttered on dead earth
where once ran silver streams, of fertile skies
and into pools,
across a grassy land.

We’d walked along rivers, beneath rainbows
beside the sea, through forests and deserts
and explored the oceans; out to the stars :
shining in space, but made ourselves islands
where we burned our own breaths,
waiting for warmth

We’ll finish flight, around this wrapping rock
on broken wings, to flap and come to flame
not as phoenix feathers : and that great wave
to gut the garden, and the dark hearth of hell
dug to come our grave,
shall set it’s sail.

No raven’s bread, for in the lightening flash
when wind rips flesh from bone, and a gale
grounding mountains, the horn’s! unholy blasts
will set this world ablaze, the sky will drop
It’s last of light, for I,
am become Death.