The slaughter began at the noonday of my creed.
Poets became murderers as the anarchy cast petal-blades in their hearts.
The innocents were moorland chimes.
I saw the previous infatuations: A church slid from the skyline.
Deep down I knew dogma had no mercy for itself
and was automatic in violence
even at the end of a day’s revelation.
And on each blade of grass, a reddened Silence was hanging
the weight of a fallen deed.