The Flocks Outcast

Brooding at the precise margin of the world
The jag of the history tomes timeline
Terminal chapters frequently reach its culmination in misery
It's fitting, by ineluctability we all die ultimately
Camera lenses arrest you in maimed poses
There are pennies concealing the harassed eyes
And everyone was compelled to cast their looks aside
From the lurid compass that greets lookers
Everybody appears to glance upwards at the clouds
Again the least anticipated effectuations cheat control
But God has never recriminated their squalor
Even if it gets to operose to be sufferable
Storm clouds deluge the solitary skies
Greeting the jaded eyed multitudes below
Rain lashes out and washes the blood out
From your lacerated and broken corpus
There are pennies concealing the harassed eyes
They are beginning to rust at the median
As time performs its decrement on them
Sirens wail into the mourners abiding arms
With a lusterless acception everyone goes home
A click and the doors were locked after them
Still your body reposes in the center of a formerly crowded street
Debauched by the impure delineations being placed around
A beacon for the crows to come feast
And to make their bellies full of flesh
To late, to late!
I've already started to flourish off this cadaverous skin
It fufills me in every way conceivable
My stomach reachs out past me as I feed and feed
I'll go home one day
Once I have gormandized all the rapacity