"There's only future . . ."

The Finest of Wheat

And so everything unravels
The past enters fearfully
& the quiet of doom echoes
Down the last stretch of lingering conscience
Something wicked this way comes—
But the righteous gather
Breastplated
En-armored
The vigorous bastions gain
The high ground, dissembling not
Calling out for deliverance
From the howling wastes
The devouring locusts
The last chance rodeo that was your life
Emptying the chattel pens
Freeing the captives
Sending the enslaved out into the Fields of Glory—
Ask not for the morsel:
Seek the feast, the Eucharist,
The Lion’s gate.