The Messenger

Feel it abandon its last bastion,
shrinking,
the panoply splintered–

something fleeing,
vulnerable,
lost in medial grey,
its trail pure ignition.

What deeds amongst the crestfallen
will lift the stunted calling
from tabetic breasts,

and with hope’s scrip
concealing the bright carol,

who will pardon the
wizened courier
slipping with the dispatch

into booming madness

(c) Seth Grube