Friday, February 13, 2015
The noon is the noon, day after risings,
A wonderful night ensues to surely retaliate,
As their images are precisely decapitating
And the decimal numbers lose on the score
And scree, debris is aloft from the ground -
An explosion recurs faster than ice sprouting.
The noon is the time for war, a religion of dates,
Asking for the battles will rewind and forward
The tapes of justice, like fellowship of the higher men,
Fixing the poetry to this day and night in unison,
Like the buds of the holiday or the future time.
A still picture is a beloved daughter.
Topic(s) of this poem: war