The End Of Man

The rough beast, true to form,
is indeed born in Bethlehem.

It’s slimy belly still digesting
the falcon and the falconer.

It has no need of right or wrong,
and no silly in between.

The center never held,
it was just imagination.

No one was ever innocent,
no one was ever God.

And now indignant desert birds
frolic in the burning sand’s reward.