From the plane it becomes clearer:
the bodies on the floor a kind of fan
around the poisoned altar, blood
lubricating the passageway home.

Shock the sky and shake the earth,
hidden landscape a human highway,
busted stuff and despair the sleeper
that rose and blew up our dreams.

Do the feelings stay? They do not.
Ribs of disaster break and splinter
throughout Jonestown, religion
a forced march to murdered ideals.


© Rupert M Loydell

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