The Last Hounds of the Pilgrimage Dog

The moon is calling you in a howl
and it’s on the top of the world
You see too many in our word
and yet welcoming us like no tomorrow
while you sail yourself out
to arrest a lonely mind
and a solitary figure calling out
for a company and loyalty
The lunar flowers are here without hesitation
and I can only smell death and affliction,
and your peace,
and another woe passes me by
with no ease