"Of what we had been and were no more" D. Schwartz
Is this my child, the child none bear, staggering Godless, foreboding a solemn, unconsecrated past? He’ll dream of knives, of kings without eyes, Servitude & crime, legions of angels unable to fly, Wounded on wing & trampled underfoot With no stars left to climb yet so hungry to shine. His right of birth hammered panels of discarded bronze Scraps raised in odd public squares praising
Nameless fathers & daughters, artists, their lovers, Butchers with faces, mothers, the craven: A select few assassins taken with life. The season Turned quickly. Unnoticed. Cornice grotesques Grinning through ice, geese huddling close. In these woods great trees fall. In these woods We lumber slow while slowly wilting, like cut flowers Drying, flowers which stemmed from your asking.