Triumph Still

You have made your bed in fire and choked down glass to stave off hunger. Every hour is impossible. Whole days are mythical. Electronic solidarity has not restored your dead, so we fashioned pins and signs. Then our confederation screamed at shimmering upscale buildings to produce meaningful change. The towering steel and glass monolith did not requite us in the least. There is no cache of weapons among us, just guerilla awareness. Our rescue is a mediation of hope. A sponge of wine and vinegar is extended to you this day. We could do nothing but fall before the same broad swords that have cut down your families. The sun pursues you in the day, and the frost gives chase during the night. When you close your eyes, do they pull you back in time to see the shape of fraternity. Recall to mind all the celebratory feasts. No more. Village goats have rid themselves of the butcher. Who will wed under the fatal precipitation war planes? None baptize, make an end of schooling, or observe historical cheer. Everything is pressed in between dust clouds and the stick of blood. Yet for all of this I am a backward man. These black pages of terror must come with gold trim. Grave harm can only manufacture armor. Command a cherry blossom among the ash heap. It makes more sense here than in a garden party. From the mills of extinctions waft the smell of after birth. Evil is ordinary, but righteousness waits for a big enough handicap to awaken.