Sunshine telegram

The moon is collapsing into the east-side,    
whilst our axis sheds its coat of mundane;    
opening a newborn era devilish.    
Weeping as others form their    
halos from Queen Corona,    
you shudder towards the fires.    
"A demon needs its horns, dear".    
   
Mutilated petitions for reservations    
in heaven were labelled abortive.    
Sunshine telegrams peppered hallowed,    
forced their grand entrance through    
the postal gap of your coffin.    
Each one stating: 'access denied'.    
   
Now you're snared into a desk-job,    
skin blackened and peeling;    
faces grinning from the ashes.    
Hands grasp golden papers,    
fingertips wrapped around a    
cheap companyinferno pen.    
Soul dead long before,    
touching ink to yellow    
you count your 1000th    
Sunshine telegram.    
Congratulations.