Paul McGee

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Utopia

Three months until this deciduous descent.
Will, St. Vitus’ dance materialise such a cumbersome millstone.
Still turning, tumbling, thawing thoroughly displaying transmissions of coolness so chilling and shattering.
Beaming ever so slight in that calculated cremation and combusted ascension.
But will he rise with arms outstretched and smoke the pipe of peace.
No more wear, or tears of joy but graceful admission.
Will he see the seat of judgement so raw and red and promising?
I hear a whisper above the brass framed land.

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