This day’s count as it leaps higher still allows death to rush in unscathed, a blinding illumination crests within the winter of those still living. And while they’re airborne in that nameless sky, because only vengeance can offer them comfort while torture moves in chorus with their stillness, they shall go in any direction the sightless point. It is the count that we most remember, all of them, the living, the dead, and the dying toppling as one. ~ Within all that is observed and undetectable A memorial service, a knot in the quaking cosmos The boots and helmets and guns are at attention They stand ever still staring like creation The devout sermons trailing them Leaking a thimble of truth. ~ In the room with the talking box where we gather to be awash in consumption, a tiny flicker adheres to our wonder. ~ © 2014 Mark Richard Prime
(The Weaver's Song)