It was in death
I found meaning and beauty
Pillared deities draped
In a mantle of cracked skin
Russet robes coiled at their feet
Crooked fingers reaching
Towards a pale heaven
In lament
To winter-laden clouds
Hoping to wring
From their mercy
One last drop of autumn
Laden with rain and colour
It slowly seeped o'er all
And framed those headless angels
In fire
The groaning of tongue-less mouths
Faintly heard
A rasp, a hiss
Echoes of parched throats
Whose blood litters the ground
In sweetly foetid clots
Few things in this sphere
Are as fragrant
As their dying breath
Haloed by the tempest
Their shadows tracing gloom
I saw that they feared judgment
And in that fear
Found solace