Sonnets Of The Blood VII

This message hastens lest we both go down

Scattered, with no character, to death;

Death is untutored, with an ignorant frown

For precious identities of breath.

But you perhaps will say confusion stood,

A vulture, near the heart of all our kin:

I've heard the echoes in a dark tangled wood

Yet never saw I a face peering within.

These evils being anonymities,

We fulminate, in exile from the earth,

Aged exclusions of blood memories-

Those superstitions of explosive birth;

Until there'll be of us not anything

But foolish death, who is confusion's king.