God rest you red barbarians. you saber tongued sons of frantic intellect.
Your war's not over yet.
By years and men yet forged in the kingdoms of earth and pleasure. carved in the skin of the innocent.
The age of acquaintance.
The blood, black and high on the flag off her mast waving the canon of subterfuge for the sirens to scream through the streets until someone, just anyone understands that they matter in the storm.
When the walls crash.
The wind falls, electric.
The fear as endless as the looking glass cowboy whose ravaged arms once raised us up to see the lights of the north sky when we were children and cradled ourselves in the cracks of his hand. feigning sleep. low suffering. a hundred reasons to keep up the demons when we should have been listening.
The quiet was all that we needed.
The hum of a heartbeat.
Our fathers, torn themselves, from the same cloth of fury. born with the same promising fists and what dreams they've kept hidden for the sake of their one simple offering.
A reason to live.
As we crawl with broken backs towards bethlehem. in the path of great men and shining beasts. clutching our breasts. hope, alive singing with dread until we, at last, meet our magnificence.