where the millstone grinds the chaff...

Listening in the wind for the Zombie Vanguard (sweet lantern enticing)

The lack of privacy in America has mushroomed in humanity's erosion from divinity, in the eyeless finds and faceless binds that mine shadows of what once was and now just is, in each memory, in each foggy recollection through which hope still prays for a cure, in each wish away from our naked ape inoculation and the endless angles and vocations we fish for little bits of salvation and...

  we still howl against its misty fingers, its quiet light that find the bumps of the night with, rolling long wave after wave, crashing the air, a slave-ship bared, bored for waters, November-ed lords stolen daughters, turning lies furious to stoned, burned towards eyes leaned, learned and weaned on bones in cages whilst Winter sets in and rages in all the spaces between the things and rings and otherwise what we tape as wings when we perch on that cliff above the sea  and see what seizes in the squeeze from antiquity to technology...