Portents VIII

a shostakovich morning this is 

the dew is dripping from a nepenthes 

as it holds a cache of unlucky ones 

those who fell into the trap 

those who could not return 

to partake of another mourning 

another lamentation of the present age 

there will be dark clouds later 

shrouding a horizon depleted of light 

covering a world that no longer needs it 

snares accurate in their marching timbre 

loud sharp before the lightning strikes 

before the waltz the dance of war 

discordance reigns supreme 

with its frenzy its mania its desperation 

torrents of painful notes fall from the sky 

stinging those who try to pass by 

pain madness as blood rules with might

the life in a raging river as it washes all away 

just another day in this somber play