A Wretched And Last Recognition Of This Earth Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Imagine
that; of some
polished old fate
enshrouded once on
fortune's plate, in piles
of death lined bloods and
mores. Lost and silent; and so
contaminated, a sleeping human species
not quite dead, but consumed by greed and
want, and worms. Less whole; of, meagre
portions, wrinkled flesh clinging to fused
bones, life hanging on not to poor and
unremembered wars. Stalking the
proud from every country; heads
held high to avoid the stench of
waste, not discriminating, while
[the earth was maimed and closed.]
And the fields; across the fields, the rot
survives, across the fields. Where the once
humbled fell as the bark of a master's hound
echoes its last howl. Joining; in the spectacle
of the end of one species' humanity, as the last
trusted servant of humankind. The once crowned
jewels of the universe; now do not hear the crows in
spirit caw; for they too line the tomb of everything made
dead. Ransomed to pestilence; made from that which
melts thoroughly, everything. In the whim of laughing
strengths and tortured souls one; in person, strolls
travelling and roaming and weaving, a wretched
and last recognition of this earth.