The night is nigh too close for
The weathered sword of her love hangs
Like a pendulum in stormed' weather.

Break fast, the leather neath' her eye
Is worn two years far the past.
Since then, since her daughter passed,
Thoughts are merely illusory illusions.

She swears love and fear are the same.
I tell her different, though she swears by it.
In her eyes though, I can see the damp sweat
Of the beat of a million lost battlefields,
A dying trumpet call sounding for every forgotten solider.

Laying there, cramped and despaired',
I wonder if her father knows what he has done.
There are scars so deep they turn invisible;
Cuts so long they are but miles on an infinite cloud.
Each pasture holds its fruit until it is time to pick.

At night, the fields glow like stars wilted on the waves of the ocean.
We are men with tepid souls waiting for our loneliness to be broken.
A stern hand, a fatherly hand, a grip that said, Speak when spoken.
Great clock. Golden hands. Spinning for all that see that land.
No peace shall we find with God. Peace rests solely in our skinned' hand.

A broken neck sleeps with the dirt,
And though I hurt, I rest inside of the mud,
Receiving golden studs from horses whose names
Are not the same as the Gods I was brought up with.

Belts bend with the bullet crazed war so long
As the generals have their milk, their maidens, and their pudding.
She bends her brow toward the table, where I soon see
Her misfortune of antiquated loyalty.

Some men are born to be together.
Some men are born to be alone.

Since then, the hens lay their silver eggs like war chores.
An exhale and the tenses go all soft in the smoke.
She cries like she's never experienced pain before, yet I know,
Human beings were born to go through such a blow.
Create yourself from the clay,
Laying waste to all hands that touch thee' in their minds eye.

Due daises dare to stake the fake
That rests between the cracks of the chosen seed.
My oil, pressed black and clean like laundry,
Reminds me of a man named David - a ***** townie.
Since when have I then addressed love as a real thing, since now?

Tangible, we are.
Infallible, we are not.
Infinite, some are.
Forgettable, we all are.

Let our tags wear with the salt water
Of the ocean, the Earth, the millennia;

Till our
Time to
Burn has

Come.