They march
withered but undying
with mud
fallen sweetly on their faces.
A new sky and a tender wind
grant severance from the sea.
Haunt us no more
with your pikes and arrows.
Blend our moanings and call our names:
the sunflower,
the wind,
the moonshine breaks
a mirrored frame,
a knighted sky,
and iron cast in embroidered lace.
I lay my hopes in
a hinterland of grace/waste.
What will a soul bring
that a body cannot
in sorrow or in death?
When sentiments of corpses
hang high from windows
paneled by offense,
stars fall on broken strings.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
They march
withered but undying
with mud
fallen sweetly on their faces.
A new sky and a tender wind
grant severance from the sea.
Haunt us no more
with your pikes and arrows.
Blend our moanings and call our names:
the sunflower,
the wind,
the moonshine breaks
a mirrored frame,
a knighted sky,
and iron cast in embroidered lace.
I lay my hopes in
a hinterland of grace/waste.
What will a soul bring
that a body cannot
in sorrow or in death?
When sentiments of corpses
hang high from windows
paneled by offense,
stars fall on broken strings.
