Moon raked
And the wind
Comes to collect the rubbish bin
Of conceit that has collected
In her sister's tunneled eye.

The glory girls turn back
And sing the high handed praises
Of their brazen comrades
In the light practice of extinction.

Mankind shivers with a cold
Under the glances of these infectious four.

Come with her,
Says their Lady Artimis,
And you shall inherit the world.

But she lied,
In the glorious four crowd outside her shack
And wait like mad dogs for their meals.

...At the end of the sidewalk
There is nothing
But red hair and air.