That we behold our children in battle
and days dwindle to winter’s ice
is beyond a tale told of sorrow
burning in a neighbor’s hearth.
When the shield and armor forged
is lashed to yours; and bound helpless
you witness blood and bone
pressed and pierced to service survival –
what salvation will save innocence?
There comes a day that is the last.
What peace may come to a warrior’s heart
when, past reckoning, that day comes?
What wretched wakefulness will heal
those that remain armored in the night?
That we should live a lie of life unbounded;
and all we touch, all we see to desire, be ours
for the closing of a hand, the nodding of a head.
Where cherished things remain possessed by one heart
and never need be severed from joy and jealousy.
A time forever chaste and weary.
Is one day less important than fifty and one years?
Perhaps fifty and six?
Is ninety and five too tedious and grandiose?
Is ten of less import or more than seven?
What is the measure of a life bounded:
in years and days of waiting and not knowing?
What truth is beyond the lie?
What dust will we become in the morrow?
WET WEAK THATCH AHA
HI SOBER SKIT FEES
COOLED LOAFER WADDER
ACID BRAND TRIALS
GO GLEE PLOY
ZIP SNUGLY OUT
QAT OX PAX
MEND MIME HAM
left with TIN
and without you.
No one wins.