the vineyard by: l.s. Morgan

Smokey vines twist in the sky,
Like vines trying to reach heaven.
The stench lingers on the ground
everywhere , eyes cry, ears bleed.
Tongues cleave, sockets shrivel.
Stacks of dead rot
Back to the earth at least
Forever recycled.
Make more,
Make more,
More smoke,
More ashes, 
More tears.
The war to be
In the valley-
Here I am merry
You gotta love this guy;
Hail him high.
Vines twist above us; above
Power fists