The Field
I sang a song of unknown love,
So decadent to rectify the chill,
Reflexive yet new from the above,
In love with love so sole and gill.
Peace lay unattached,
Near, yet distant in the mud;
That cottoned shrill plan unmatched,
Intermingled in the spreading thud.
The play of malefactors messing with bombs,
Crude, relentless, shifting, shudding asunder,
Bloody. Mutilated - hard mutated faces, mashed,
Elongate saying stop the faction: bastardiser.
Both men claim god without pith for wife,
Who know no rights, charm, or partner’s stare;
God wars, cuts, tears and flips as highly strung,
His precipice and drive are evil for souls akin.
Panic and desperation liaison upon defence,
Sweat kindles the neck with eyes unfocused,
Tendering the hopeful but quiet bet in offence,
That glancing humans would bend to be cussed.
But the solid, metal gun, cold yet trigger warm,
Pleads for its parsers to claim powerlessness;
Un-piloted entities drop bombs to deface and harm,
The snow-white home makers creating kids’ friendliness.
God is love, he skids with joy,
Marries who is so reciprocally disposed,
To loosen and release one’s human spirit, fold,
For the individual’s whims and films to snowboard.
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