Fear In Flight, God — 2

I’m drinking Rosé,
the colour of inhuman blood,
watching.

From night–time winter nurseries
cylinders of bright orange light
rise to the lowering cloud,
and spread like petals,
dying.

Hijackers
murder a bridegroom
for sight.

Elsewhere,
the heat is so extreme
that shocked birds
flying far above flames
ignite,
falling as shells,
incrementing death.

They think
to reduce their nation’s pain
by adding to it.

This is a time of cyclic myth
of winter solstice,
of Y2K,
of Christian birth.

Today’s God consumes.