Where blades are grassy on the mounded future,
Old Glory’s smoke seems in the wind to vapor,
nocturnal silence melts in rays and sutures.
The sky’s too calm to light the blue touchpaper
and keep an eye on slicing, chops, and butchers.
Who lulls the war, collects dead skin from vipers,
the evil kings – all Lucifers and Duces?
Who hunts for souls, and finds a work for pipers?
The one with eyes well-sharp to be an arrow,
gunpowder’s spirit in a mortal grapple.
The chosen one, he dribbles souls with sadness.
Don’t ask what’s coming next! The pass is narrow
to go to hell or eat Forbidden Apples.
Not much to lose, except pluck-feathered madness.
March 29, 2011
Sonnet XXIX
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111032906163
Свидетельство о публикации №111032906163
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