Mausoleal Drift

We speak in fretful, frantic, timorous tones
Prophesy

We weep for a gilded age
Larded and garlanded with what?
What murder?
What horror?
What lavish surfeit of grief bequeathed?

Eulogize o'er the ever-nearing end
Clinging ever tighter
To this million sorrowed breast
But what dreader fears fester
Than Armageddon denied?
Better to quicken this immaculate decline

And so, from paradisе blows the mingling storm
With too-known horrors foretold
Lo, what dire fatе do we mourn
When grimmer tides threaten
To persist to ebb and flow?

Left to founder, tempest toss'd
In blood-dimmed torrents, lost
Left to founder, tempest toss'd
In blood-dimmed torrents, lost