Of March and Men
In ecstasy do fragile limbs depart,
so loosely severed from the waning skull
upon a phantom journey then embark;
while chasing, ancient time slows to a crawl.
And ever edging toward the futile dark,
fallen upon callous, silent hearts,
a poor musician sounds a sobbing lark;
his young voice warbles on the old ramparts.
While wailing tales of fearless human will,
of failing male heartbeats and tasteless doom,
realities of blood that sweep a hill
and fragrant flowers birthed in springtime soon.
My poppy child, cooing at the doves
who mourn in vain from lofty grassy graves
where warm dirt trembles then, caressed by love
of dreamers, who forget, and drift away.