Squeak

So the memory of the green still stuck on my brain, 

somewhere in my soul lives the lust for a grain of rain, 

sordid and ends up in a blast of vain.

and when the cock blows the trumpet of shrill, 

    wakes the misty dawn for another morning chill, 

    while the squeak of a chainsaw is a burst from hell.

But gray is the morning stealthed in torrential rain, bearer

of the scepter, cast in violent sinister and walks over, 

the logs that veil the placid lake of toxified water.

Then the veil of woven primeval denudation is torn, 

there from a slit, unleashed flood of fornification, 

with a perverted pestilence, sledge of devastation.

And there is nobody to mourn for nor to bury, 

    there is nothing left neither scars of tragedy, 

    there is no more chainsaw's squeak, epilogue to misery.