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push’n air, push’n power
the smell of powder strong
sister moon’s sardonic smile,
she, casts her shadow long.

find’n fears’ darkest hour;
is this my only song?
quell’n the bubbl’n bile;
are all my mem’ries wrong?

mid the mêlée i recall
a reb hang’n from a high place
his young and long’n face
turn’n blue against the fall.

i’m lost among clang’n saber,
flapp’n tent, youth held dear.

oh, let my ink sculpt words with force.
i’ll wait for others to read this war.

my nightmares stretch
from dawn to down.
the kill’n’s never done;
my bȇte noire’s fevered retch.

blood clothes the fields
like flam’n lilies
sett’n fire to hard bless’d word;
wee earless lambs without a shepherd.

jb’s body still lies a’molder’n
and all those souls a follow’n
lay beside his molder’n
await’n for the dawn’n day.

copyright rl busséll 2017

This entry was posted in poetry.
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