Frost of the Harvest

There is a revelry in the dark clouds of war,
upon the soft soil, drenched in blood
the unlucky ones dwell beneath,
as craven raconteurs spin yarns,
and cull the fog o'er the eyes of reason,
blackened boots cover the land,
one by one, cohesive with the drumbeat,
but not to the heartbeat.

Some cry out to gods in the sky,
others bemoan cruel fate,
yet still the graves remain full,
unwilling containers for the greatest mistake,
man against man on a never-ending
battlefield.

Still, each mourning draws hope - like every breath,
as the gentle winds of change allay cannon-smoke,
the stench of death in the fields of gold, now crimson
in the setting sun,
tilled in those fields,
a lesson in the beginning learned at the end,
in every mind, in every grey storm, in every life lost,
hidden in plain sight,
hope found
even in the frost of the harvest.

Forehead

Brittle as dry paint
faded in the endless sun
sweating on the back porch
waiting on the past
bodies writhing by the hour
it's the middle of day
and the well has gone dry
still we rest together
on diamonds of the beach
and the light shines brightly
pointed towards
restless hearts
the smearing of time
driving us on-wards
flying south like the winter
another ray of sun
piercing the forehead
like a forest fire
the leaves rain
and the dream ends
for another night in the wind
kiss and embrace
and the dawn will shine through
once again.