Sarap

by kholinar

The murderers, our host,
ascending voice,
trumpet in hands
(with scaled knuckles).

Pale, we rent our clothes
and cast the die.

Their descent is
dazzling, down
stairs in arpeggios.
We flew to the wings.

The die fell, and never
found its side.

Voice like a furnace,
lit pilots sprawl runways.
Mangled song foreshadows
our ignoble end.