"To the missiles chattering beam!" we bow. “O! To bombs dropping from heaven!” we bend. Such folly brings laughter and joyful eruptions from the winking throng of toadies (and the dead). “To green and surrendering grace!” we groan. “O! To these foolish breasts adhere!” we drone. We begin to assemble loyal cities from under the rubble and erect love and honor of smoldering metal and bone. “To our savior’s craft, give worship!” we entreat. “O! To metal-souls, children's breath!” we shriek. We carefully situate fingers and toes for bridges and roads leaving the best of the human frame for soaring metaphors. “To leaders of machinery, give praise!” we beg. “O! To brazen chops, living’s wonderment!” we grant. We heave tanks and jets to fly over enemies of existence and, weeping, we shed the masks that veil our disgrace. © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)