Plows of War
A granular lair,
away and disposed
a solitude gnashed
with the tire of a van.
Of partial grounds, a foam,
a welcome foretold
misgiving the seconds
of a playful crawl.
The infant ignites
a faith to the cross
like a shield from a warrior
leaving reason at charge.
What frail life to have
diluted in thoughts?
My spot of endless dreaming
will not seek far below.
My wrath has felt denial
to pause the neck of its clause
giving a flame as a final
approach to the Sun.
Every land has its cost,
unnerving wheel of calm
bodies flowed by the exile
of a penitent strum.
War has been a fat liar,
bombinating the storm
laying sick on a cliff
where the peace has been blown secured.