Down into the sudden pitfalls,
We greet misery with a closed fist,
Holding cold bones; shriveled under the weight,
Of all ungainly, spectral possessions,
Reeking of human desire.
There, knee deep in scalding sand,
We shed our veils, walls, steel traps and anchors,
Deserters of compassion and bereavement,
We the hopeless mirage to pilgrims.
Deep in the green, pure bosom of home,
Bold words carved upon faceless granite,
Feel true to touch, and pass through,
Into the poetic heresy of past horrors,
Repeating with undone mind,
Borrowed memories of fallen men.
And the fading voices; helpless and haunting,
Herald no ounce of kindness,
From the eroding masses,
With their blind eyes and deaf ears,
Set on the far side, at the golden glories of conquests and castles,
Honeyed verses of mist born deeds, filtered through the lens of blood and bravery.
But the tragedy lies not in this unmaking,
Of you and me and all the mute feet around;
It hovers in the decision, of sending again,
Clueless clear eyes, into the hoary depths,
With spades and shovels,
And a pair of wet kiss,
To last a lifetime.