Another Kind of Violence
our battlefield's grove:the eye of the storm, amidst water and the willow which built our rifles.
canaries' songs blanket abandoned dead, picturesquely frozen in time,
returning to reclaim their world from cacophonies of violence.
our melancholic silence:
sliced in half by howling, salty gusts barraging land from sea.
they have painted your noble cheeks with a rosy crayon,
exploring one's geometry in impressionists' repose—
colouring your face as father did with gifts of enlistment and pleasantries,
his dried pigment set within lines within lines.
if I were given a brush:
fearful desire to ruin your stately portrait, drench you in crimson bloodshed,
tear apart this innocent image, burn your honour in a shingon display
and present its ashes to our once-great father, indifferent as a canary after the tides of battle,
unmoved still by his blessed son laid out on the doorstep of our family home.
my artistry in nature:
a cat drags in prey, ignorant to all but storm-front wind flowing through fur,
hunger, desire, desperation for approval— a pat and a word from men as dead as front line infantry—
and his reward is being sprayed with a can of water.
Dec. 05, 2023
the path forward seems to go back,
the direct path seems long,
true power seems weak,
true purity seems tarnished,
true steadfastness seems changeable,
true clarity seems obscure,
the greatest art seems unsophisticated,
the greatest love seems indifferent,
the greatest wisdom seems childish.
