A liturgy of errors,
Spewed forth from the mouths of icons,
And those not heard from
Among the usual suspects.
For it is the master of the air
That clings to our brains
With a voice somehow angelic,
Nudging us toward oblivion.
Available to us through nightly howls,
Like a wind that screams among skyscrapers,
Forever taunting us with reason
That is yet unreasonable.
A purveyor of lies
This master of the powers of the air,
A murderer from the beginning,
Yet somehow at large.
Copyright 2014 by Andrew T. Durham