Untitled (so far)
Uninspired by a rose
my breath is sent
To the Moon
where dawn is spent
Steepled in history
and solid windows
Are encased in cement
arising from the fire
Where the dispirited flower
unites in death
In thorny attire
with its twin
In the tower
aflame for the truth
That is wearing thin
with every breath
Epigram
Terror rides the subways and the planes.
It rattles sabres and hackles manes
In capitals
And stately halls;
It gets more Press,
I confess,
Than
The Hunger of Man.
Students of History
Find it no mystery:
Famine will stay
But Terror will play.
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