Chapel grief, in road cavern grave.
Spiked menace gripped poverty, with purities shadow.
Grasped in a moment of mission, based on misconception.
Slithering gratuitously into synapses revelation.
Truth never stable, no wobble allowed for fallacy
Pressed in teetering bunker, a concrete hallow
A bath in blood drunk from slit throat horror
Probing canister gassed, as tubular bell rings
Chimes clanking for remembrance, a poppy dogs dinner
Who owns the right to life extermination
A babbling downcast rancour
Evil is live black wards
Keepers of wave foam crash on the shore of practise
Bury the soul
Deep and definite
Dressed for the occasion
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2014