Choices

In the sky, it is making a horrible sound
But if I block my ears and just look down
The Black Sun has not birthed yet evil rays
The day has yet no awful aftermath.

Then again, the ground,
Is heaving with the rising of the town
Of bones, and with the buried murmured lays
The former dead are raised to awful wrath.

And fingers in ears: blocks from all around
The cries of warnings now insistent grown
As nature's self her green cursed fruit displays
To turn me from the left or right-hand path.

Perhaps by sea, oh no that's now icebound
The coming back of aeons once long known,
Half hiding things released as ice-shelf frays
From each a horror's glacial holograph.

And they are everywhere, as hare to hound
Am I to them, they wear the dreadful crown,
One crown on many heads, as the Play says
Many and singular both, defying math.

Unless of course, just in my mind the sound
The bones beneath my feet my fear alone,
The warnings, frozen sea, the dreadful gaze
All just my own subjective epitaph