"bivouac" poems
In this evil year, autumn comes early...
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?
You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.
It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...
--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!
But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back.
3.8k
The fearless ones
are fanning out
into the woods.
Others are huddled
in smartly constructed
camouflaged blinds.
These self styled
eco-warriors
brave the cold
and the discomforts
of inclement weather.
They keep a
watchful eye
over the stale
remains of
Dunkin Donuts,
bagels and
bacon grease
they cleverly
scattered
outside their
deadly bivouac.
These bold ones
eagerly finger the
barrels of their high
powered rifles,
palming the smooth
wooden stocks with
warm naked hands.
They itch to squeeze
the trigger but discipline
and fortitude inform
the vigilance of these
sentinels of sustainability.
They philosophically muse
about restorative balance
and the paradox of killing
in order to survive.
Another day has broken
over the New Jersey Highlands.
The hunt for bear is on.
Let the mammalian cleansing begin.
jbm
Oakland
12/6/10
Music Suggestion: Radiohead, Hunting Bears
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC
spoon fed my keepsakes as nothing blots the sun so much
you teach me how to cringe in spun sugar. the nape of your
neck.
gleefully, we usurp the thicket of our mild dementia. sullen
joy equipped. a sumptuous dirge curdles the myth, your fins
***
as troubadours, we malinger in the pith of our blunt fruit. crust
removed from our daily bread. our basket of basilisks, bathe
in stone.
duel wielding our gazebos... we bivouac in our ambivalence, by
turns we move. you tip toadstools as i milk maidens for their
candelabras.
our palominos run. we do
violence to timpani and click mice.
pc
drifting in the cyberwocky. we transit the binary auto-bond
and paste
whats
clip.
blue thumbs thread cranberry noose. our ***** nods off. fronds
of juniper and cannabis slap the window pane. throughwhich
a *** mouse pounced on frond’s sway.
startled, we move the furniture of our eastern proclivities.
for thine is the kingdom
of our discontent !
swing-shift lap-dogs, trundle west of the east village. smell
of ****** and nag champa. idiots sting.
idiots braid zodiacs with greasy fingers. [ indeed ]
and
you
preach from your gut...
( your left breast marvelous with taint) and saltwater taffy.
we
laugh again-
at things we have
and now
only
harbor ghosts
where the rain
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
this is the new
intimacy.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
1.8k
You said I did something wrong
so I have to stay in your box
can’t go to Trader Joe’s to buy bananas.
I guess you see a world
of good and bad boxes
and everyone has to be in one or the other.
I will explore your box
cut holes in all six sides
let the light of freedom in
and when I’m done
there won’t be much of your box left,
just more holes and light
than cardboard and tape.
That’s all your box ever was
just a bivouac
that grew soggy
when the first rain fell
and the directions you wrote
on the outside of the box
started to fade and run
down the sides
in ribbons of color
that made a nice pattern
in the shape of a bunch of bananas.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time; -
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
My favorite poem
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807—1882~
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
All my friends they smoke this things
And handed me a Chesterfield King- Jawbreaker from Bivouac
Lyrics I tried to memorize
with my friends, while *******
on the syrup crusted
mouths of glass coke bottles.
Singing loud and off key.
On the side of a Ralphs in the stagnant summer swelter.
The soundtrack song when being a punk skater
was a profitable venture,
and landing a kick flip was an achievable
wet dream.
When we could play Lane’s boom box
just loud enough to drown out the whimpering
from our sprained ankles
and scraped up knees
that left the sidewalks on Foothill blvd. so ******
The music we were hearing now,
was way beyond Sunday school.
It was the sound of the sixth period bell,
and rushing to Jeff’s backyard
to smoke his dads cigarettes.
As we got older
We tried to quit the smokes
and forget the lyrics. But sometimes
we’d still proposition people
on the side of that Ralphs
to buy us cigarettes.
When we succeeded
We’d sing that old song coughing, hissing, and wheezing.
-Kevin Theal
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
the leaden
wetness of an
October snowfall
cloaks branch
and bough
of woefully
laden
trees
the pressing
mass
a weighty
strain
prostrates
mighty
hardwoods
to autumns
cold ground
as a
truculent
Nor'Easter
claws its way
through
the uneasy
Mid-Atlantic
night,
the crash of
creaking
maples and
popping oaks
persistently
echo through
the black
woods of
this
trembling
evening
power flickers
perplexed grids
go down
extinguishing
the warmth of
suburban
house lights
the growing
aggregation
of crushing
pressure
on tensile
taxed
branches
snaps
the firmest
wood
an
incessant
barrage
of
thumps
and
dings
splatter
against
the
house
while the
shuddering
uncertainties
of frightened
children
rise
as each
limb
clatters
to
earth
our
cowering
bivouac
draws
the
incessant
fire
of a
harassing
fusillade
from
legions
of
invisible
snipers
as
swooping
gusts
threaten to
relieve more
arboreal
tension
praying
limbs
fail
to pierce
the safety
of thinly
tiled
roofs
our
abiding
hope
remains to
escape
the
next
random
blow
of fate
the
night of
falling trees
stirs our
sleepy
hamlet
from an
uneasy
midnight
slumber
10/29/11
Oakland
jbm
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 9:38 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
One slept soundly in those Adirondack nights,
blanketed in youthful exuberance from
acidic rain pollution heralding the Crack of Doom.
The fish we caught still fit for human consumption,
the marble statues not yet melting in city parks,
nor green pastures distributed with a browning blot.
No, time was far from reconciled with nature,
the child in us still curled up at the center,
our songs still clarion beneath a complicated sky.
You might say our mountains had a low grade fever,
that there were generous shadows sunning across our chest,
but, Midwest chimneys bilged us with their discharge.
I can't go back, reality too painful a guardian,
every mountain bivouac of boyhood long diseased.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
"A Psalm of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!A_Psalm_of_Life
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Some days I'm afraid of
-the wall-
From the here-and-now
I can hear the music and
feel the rumblings of trees
shooting
up
beyond the brick
and running ivy.
I can hear the laughter of
friends and children and a lover
I have yet to love
fizzling through the cement cracks.
It's just a whisper when it reaches me,
but I want to know them
so badly.
Silhouettes in orange windows
of tall and beautiful buildings
dance, because they have time to dance,
and they know that dancing is important,
and I want to dance with them
so very badly.
I know I'm over there too,
leaning on that wall,
watching the sun
setting on something wonderful
while I sit
in this bivouac,
Here-and-Now.
He's leaning
and breathing,
and dreaming of the
sunset eclipsing wall,
and drinking in the light
like a fish,
and I want to know him
and dance with him
because I have time to dance.
I want him to remember me
so badly,
when he's leaning and smiling
and dancing in beautiful buildings
and loving, and being loved.
Some days I'm afraid of
-the wall-
but I know the sun is setting on something
beyond my view.
And even if the sun simply lingers for a few
moments more on
some empty vista,
I will smile and lean
and love every contour
with all of my being.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
Morning here midnight there
Winter chilling the temperate,
Sharp heats of mid day in the tropics
Putin’s Blizzards in Ukraine a counterpoise
To an elegant bivouac in Timbuktu.
Sun’s selfish rations to those underneath,
Has too sent me to bed in ruthless darkness
As others it wakes to pocket glory on the Wall Street
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Brilliant stars, silent nights
Fireflies, Northern Lights
Mountain streams, fresh air
Fall asleep anywhere
Small town, take a chance
Pig roast, barn dance
Allemande left! Do-si-do!
Spontaneity here we go!
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Beat Zen's hey-day
Doing things our own way
Nonconformity, anything goes
Kerouac-Ginsburg-Burroughs
Shot to pieces, picking skin
Benzedrine, adrenaline
Don't forget the Phenergan
Notify our next of kin
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:11 PM UTC
you: stuck in a bivouac that I said I outgrew
me: taking my wants from some list I once knew
I constantly compound, touching just grinds,
for ever-expanding still means there are binds.
Now that I have it, I sputter, all spent
My strengthening will? Only stands bent.
Shaking, I spit, then sway where I stand.
Uncertainty forces a reach for more hands
I had come unglued, and you’d had no clue,
now I lie awake, losing memories of you.
A catalyst came, yet something is waning,
so I ask myself, from what is this draining?
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
The ember extinguishes,
Imposing darkness.
The pyre's carcinogen
ushers him to move on.
The fragrance teleports him:
Childhood bonfires,
Burning cities,
The end of civilization.
Burn it all down!
So much is lost.
From the fires of rebellion,
regression into tribes.
Among the ashes,
he finds a charred Bible
and quickly hides it.
Demoniacal wailing nearby.
He hurries to his bivouac,
hidden in a cliffside crevasse.
He devours the legible words,
diligently memorizing fragments.
A far off explosion reverberates;
pinned up book pages quake.
He mumbles ***** and Gomorrah
… to ashes … the ungodly.”
Feebly he undresses:
jacket with phoenix insignia,
tattered baseball cap,
and military boots.
His eyes, deeply sunken,
craving to espy hope.
His quivering emaciated frame
lowers unto a cot.
Laying his hoary head to pillow,
Phrases, memories, and regrets
accompany him to the celestial gates;
the ember extinguishes.
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 1:46 PM UTC
Lightning screaming into a 440 transformer , heat changing sand to crystal , nitro fueled rocket engine , glass pack exhaust , drowning out a locomotive screaming into your field of vision .. Double barrel Sawed off 16 gauge shotgun , pulling back on both triggers , one five five howitzer pumping rounds into a nuclear reactor...Delta Force coming in hard at tree top level ..Daisy Cutter dropped over a bivouac in the desert ...Spot welding a twelve inch gas main with a crack in it ...Surrounded on four sides , midnight , zealots committed to killing you ..
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
I sat in an obscure local library
for a second it reminded me
of an assisted living facility
a kind of base camp
I counted them – six distinctly
those senior men with battle scars
and sun spots that were earned
on family trips now forgotten
each had a story and a long life
almost gone now they sat quietly
inside their gray hollow heads
a few had discolored Goodwill hats
that nobody else wanted
cheap and tired looking
slurping up the papers news
three inches from their **** face,
they were clotted blue
while the chapel asylum
and town monument
across the street beheld us
there under the same beautiful sky
my green and brown bivouac
suddenly raged about my own
circular inventory
that will come
like theirs when what is left
of my forest is no different than
anyone else.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumber,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not it's goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returned,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than two-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust in no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury it's dead!
Act,-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up an doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 6:58 PM UTC
Maybe I've been insane since day one and my family
can't find the way to break the news to me ...
I think every night to anyone that would hear me , not to
let me be melted and poured into the 'American Male' mold with
it's false bravado and savage , morale culpability ..
Writing poems for the mind ., clarity and acceptance in a blackened
field of possibilities ..Poetry feeds the pigeons at the park , pets the
lambs at the game ranch , tucks you in with a kiss after dark ...
Prose is simple mathematics , throwing the book aside because you've read the ending , painting with water colors in the rain to incite bleeding , writing help on a wall that no one cares to heed ..Poetry can be lightning screaming into a 440 transformer , heat changing sand to crystal , nitro fueled rocket engines drowning out a locomotive screaming into your field of vision , one five five howitzers pumping rounds into a nuclear reactor . Poetry is Delta Force coming in hard at tree top level , Daisy Cutters dropped over a bivouac in the desert , surrounded on four sides at midnight with zealots committed to killing you ..
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
Tell me not life is in haste
Life is but a bivouac of pain.
All around are men of wild banes.
Scrunching women as paltry flesh.
Can poetry quench sultry thirst?
Nothing at all is an ending quest.
Race is dark and life is earnest.
All around the world are people of conquest.
We move in doubt we move in earnest.
Hoping tomorrow will bring us solace.
While the world is made of many colors
Those in black may fair again.
Hand in hand we made war.
Now alone is the battle rule.
Who declares the end yet unknown.
Heroes will make at vantage dawn.
Except the ones that lead us on.
For life is long and time is fleeting.
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 6:06 AM UTC