a blue fire caged and hanging from the awning
of a whitewashed wraparound of ponderosa pine
which should have held a screen on such a fine
redolent twilit moment crackled with the dawning
understanding of its pilgrims stirred from revels
in its glow and in the nearby scents which spurred to wake
the dark miasmic lemon ghosts and grassy stench
to pacts obscene to act as virid thurible to secret devils
whose demands were ozone gifts of putrescine to quench
a thirst that only apotheosis of these chosen ones might slake
but by the barn another relic hummed with sickly galling
sad cerulean and a sparkling shadow of our stupa shrine
and warbled solemn satires of the songs of our design
but did in false tones - with false words - and false calling
to the apostate decay of hearts so cruelly led by lies
but they are dying! not ascending! errant fools!
i see them drift into the blaze and fall like lightning
and give thanks that we the porchfly caste are wise
and offer imprecations to the sapphire pyre proscribing
whatsoever in their nature made the gods of barnflies cruel
