Terse messages with yellowness of
Thunder, numbed by ceremonies of
Eclipse,
This day of Death!

From across the seven seas,
It fluttered with wings of
Decrepit seasons.

The page was ill
With blood and black sorrow,
Fuming and consolidating chars of
Martyrs whose fathers were wistful politicians...

And today,
With fingers of blue,
They have arrived –
Messages of Thunder flung across
Bleeding thresholds with yellow, sickly, point-of-the-matter
Eclipse.