Assigned False Planets

A paper gun and barbed-wire halo.
A sword made of charitable acts.
The good book of demons and a bomb’s wit.
 
It was the morning the altar boy went mad,
the very same day the war of the angels began.
We were being good by being bad,
in the same way light leads into darkness.
Someone had put salt in all the sugar bowls.
They’d just proven non-existence exists,
the newspapers buzzing with bruised roses.
Networks filmed their own eventual demise.
A wolf sued a lamb for non-compliance.
The rabid fox of intuition
raided the henhouses of reason.

   Death Of A Mouse

Which is no great thing,
coming in from the frost-bitten fields,
meeting its mousey maker,
eternity’s agent the simple housecat,
a fat and playful angel of death.
 
The mouse, its life poured out
on a mat by a door,
the watch of its heart stopped,
the wheel in its head no longer turning.
 
As must we all lie down,
a little dirt-nap for the fallen just,
an old wind aching in the yellowing glade,
fields of gold calling us home,
the grains of harvest piled high.

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© Copyright, 2012, Bruce McRae.
All rights reserved.