Warrior
My past washes back, a low tide,
a haunting song
Like the zing of the arrow
sound has a shape.
Flesh. There will be war.
Witness. Stand on the field
as the ones who are already dead
need you to. Stare. Never let go.
One can not measure
death. I know –
I am the one who cuts---broken
as the edge of your cup
See----the bow I have become, the bones, the arrow –
man, but not a man.
0 comments:
Post a Comment