Song of Songs

Song of Songs

Punched through pain
Soaking stage
Guns mowed the forest of resolve
Into sodden frailty
Breaking clods
The smell of earth freshly turned
Gunpowder-tainted
The beggaring of a richness
Needs nuggets
Still we sang
Crickets upon the night of grass
Still we flared
The greenness of stars our fireflies
Defiant of the deathless sun.