Tuesday, September 7, 2010


Ambition dies with summer's final heat
As oak boughs fall like laurel, lose their caps
On orange needle down by unkempt stones--
A graveyard from the war outside of town.

The dead merely survive. It is the living
Who cast their lives against the bird shriek skies.
They only want another one because
They let the one they had get taken back.

It's not for us who turn the brown to dust
To see the harmony of life, to know
Where nurtured perfect things go when released
Like prisoners of the sun must always be.

We're left each other, to grovel for might,
Join hands, forever wrong, against the sky.
But there's a truce of freedom so few use--
The truth is in the wobble not the true.