Virtue’s End


How bravely th’knights ride out for war
upon the field of blood soaked grass
where earth drinks up that red downpour
until the horses, as they pass,
their hooves imprint, bleeding the ground—
or so it seems—man’s life as mud
under the mounted host. They sound
the trump, “Away into the flood!”
They charge in desp’rate strait the pigs,
this mockery of man, manmade;
as like to the tall oak are twigs
uncountable. Virtue they paid
to outnumber, and out produce,
Godly created man. So now,
with grunting squeals, the virpigs[1] loose
their hoards, through which the knights then plow.
How quick to die, and quick surround
the battle lusty cavaliers:
those pigs discard their spent in mounds
without mourning, nor shedding tears,
and once removed, themselves then throw
upon the wearied warriors.
Unto the dead, black hungry crows
descend, loathsome, Death’s couriers.
All peck and tear at those bleeding,
writhing, soulless corpses piled.
No other bounty’s war-feeding
will ever match this most revil’d,
this Revelation’s feast foretold.
The murder’s caws contest the din
of battle ‘tween the new and old:
between the men rising from sin,
and those which are from test-tubes grown.
Within the virpigs’ army’s midst
the last human now stands alone,
no horse, nor friends. Only his fists
are left to him, and these he swings
into the mad unending fray.
The ultimate of noble kings
so perishes, man’s final day.

Pronounced “werepig.” The “were” of werewolf comes from the Latin vir.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.