We’re holding out our colors, staring into the Sun, its beam of traumatized expressions, Our foreseeing the breaking of a noontime That raises its hand, summons the leak of nightfall And runs down the face in a reddening cascade. We are cleaved to a striking second, a screaming seed Of dread, like a child’s face meeting with the edge of Something angry, the gash of a white-hot cacophony. It is a tale as old as the soil, a story of cruelty, of The beating blue lines on our necks. O our victory, Our triumph! We can claim our prize in one breath And smash it to bits before the next! Our tale is far from over, we've things to conquer, Cambers of flesh to split in anger, mounds of glee To murder with our unsteady hands, shafts of daylight Calm to shatter like a stack of plates falling down, The powder of color falling all around us, triumphant Confetti for a heroes welcome. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)