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RAL Dobbins Mar 2014
The black trumpets play jazz in between the death of a girl in Chicago, and the death of a boy in Paris.

The lights of the cities they called home were the only creatures that saw them pass.

The boy died of forgetfulness to breath in the cold, and the girl died of a drunken car.

Inside both of them there once lay galaxies of purely everything.  Those galaxies still exist, but they're not in either of the children's bodies anymore.

Now they're stored in pockets of the sky, being saved for the day humanity learns the ways of making rotten skeletons come to life again.

The black trumpets play jazz in between the death of a nation of liars and lovers, and the death of a war in which no side won.

The families of the fallen nation survived, they were swallowed in a fire that never touches skin.
The armies of the war didn't win because the soldiers can never die, and that's sad.

They'll walk for eternity, and suffer things they shouldn't.

The black trumpets play Jazz in between time and space.
It is beautiful, it is brilliant, and it is cynical.

The black trumpets play jazz, and death forgets it's name.
Like a flower forgets it's been picked,

but this is not the end...
The war in this piece is a metaphor for suffering.
The soldiers who fought and never died are symbols for emotion and grief.
Altogether the meaning of the war in this poem is a direct metaphor for a singular person who has just faced something truly tragic and has lost control of both his emotions and his grief, along with his whole being of sanity.   Until death split him apart.

Thus means the quote, "...and death forgets his name."
The input "soldiers" suffer eternity in Hell, which is pretty similar to Earth these days.
Hell is an over-admired concept in modern poems to me, it's a place that most humans have knowledge of and redo too much in thought of art.
So I replaced Hell with Earth in this poem.

Pax mea.
RAL Dobbins Mar 2014
White foam and none.
The ocean air is thick and sweet as the sea kneads it's waves that corrode the entirety of my rib cage.
It botches stale breaths to chant hallelujah, screaming mercy, yelling bliss.
The seaside is the perfect place for a cup of black coffee.

Incan bean roast on a petrified mountain.
My stomach is a dark brown lake.
The tides rise and fall with my consumption of a dark brown drink.
The moon follows my dark brown sky.
It's a dark brown dye I preside.

I can say I've kissed a bean,
but only after I used it's blood to think.
And I take my coffee naked.
Sometimes things are just better that way.

I indulge in book ink.
I could swim in book ink.
I could use book ink as an excuse to miss a date.
When I use book ink, I drink coffee.
I drink coffee and I use book ink.
I read you can do that once, I read you could do that in a book.

I read that just being tired isn't enough these days, but coffee helps.
At least that's what I wanna believe.
I think I just like the taste,
And what comes along with it.

It's an alcohol.
I wrote this because I like coffee.

— The End —