Daffodils puked lava trails

Where sunlit spears melted nails,

Wanderings no more alone

Lonely clouds remained at home.

 

Poets of Apocalypse swapped

honeydew for pints of piss,

their easy silence spread infection

neutralised for mass protection.

 

Truth was not a casualty

its absence served to set them free,

to write of what was truly seen

might have saved what might have been.

 

But here among these sacred shelves

are books with words that they themselves

foresaw the crimes of their neglect,

which for our sakes they duly kept.