The Switcher
Then to see, the lines scrawling truth
The hand that holds a pen so cute
To write it, even in twisted infamy
The name that yearns for eternity.
Will it stay like iron, making knives
And rust and perish when war is done
Will it like flowers given to all wives
Shed seed to grow all over the sun.
It glimpsed it and could not but glee
At time's fragrant sprig of memory.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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