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Verdun
You, a soldier, amidst the trenches,
Buried like seed in the earth.
They, a gardener, standing afar,
Waiting with patience and calm.
You, a soldier, barraged by poison,
And bullets,
And fragments,
And blood.
They, a gardener, entranced by beauty,
And blossoms,
And sproutlings,
And mud.
And all you are,
all you are,
all you are,
is a flower
of
Verdun.
Turn your face
toward the sun
bleach your bones
for the gardener
of
Verdun.
You, last soldier, amidst the carnage,
Gasping, and grieving in groans,
They, the Gardener, strolling closer,
Reaches to reap the rows.
You, last soldier, slipping further,
And falling,
And falling,
And gone.
They, the Gardener, reaching foward,
And pulling,
And pulling,
And done.
And all you are
all you are
all you are
is a flower
of
Verdun.
Turn your face
toward the sun,
marrow-white bones,
for the Gardener
of
Verdun.
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Plague Lullaby
Death is a mother
who misses
her children.
She is blind to all
things.
She does not see
the year
the season
the hour
the moment
the beautiful sun
the beautiful
sun.
All Death knows,
all She feels,
is her
suffocating
exsanguinating
body crushing
flesh rotting
Love.
It pours from her
wretched heart
like blood from the
first born.
And like all children,
we dodge her
loving,
freezing,
burning
grasp,
to fly through this world,
reckless and feckless,
never knowing,
(never choosing to know),
that our mother's skeletal hands
are always
just
brushing
the back
of our necks.
When she sings her
sweet Lullaby
into our ears,
no matter
where
when
who
what
we are -
we listen.
No smeared lamb's blood,
no ash of posey,
will keep us from
her touch.
Death is a mother who misses her children
and we always listen to her Lullaby,
because we are all the
dutiful
son.
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