Inhuman

The orchard's gates struck by the waves of the banshee's murmur  
fly above with the peach and berry sprouts buoyant in branching green.    
Polaris twinkled away the summer home    
as the banshee marked the time.    
    
Escape, earth, from the urban rage    
and the elder rams that wandered there.    
The dust of Hell perches on the warmest blend of the troposphere's tide.    
The ripples of morning are smoking out.    
     
The flag nestled by the fallen squirrels of the evening covenant,    
enlaced in the hail of the storm,    
emitted its last stripes of blood in the python's constriction    
of the hope child of the independent den of insurgents.    
     
The rams flooded the castle    
crunching the squirrels' remains under the hoofs.    
The snake slithered along the path of the lightning    
and prostrated itself through the sky.    
     
This realm of the human animal    
cowers beneath Hell's delusion:    
     
"There aren't any people left."    
     
The orchard claimed dominion as the basketball's satellite    
after the moon stocked no business here.    
     
Dry bones of Gehenna,    
are you ready for the pillage of war?    
     
We looked up to the orchard through the sand burying the anthropomorphic sex toys at our sides.    
The dirt centrifuged the earth from the world.    
Some sulfur-clouded romantic eyes burn at last glance of the rose's thorn.    
In hindsight,    
its nature should never had been bred from the genes    
of our own master code.