BATÓN DUE

Why? God.

Do you fight? Your nod;

Has it not come to light, no thought,

At your cowardice of plight? For naught.

Do you save us? In arms salivating

Salvation, Damn us, too, to

Burn us for sins our heirs bear.

In fire; Inferno; kindled by whom? You

Plead, Bleed, yet seed pregnant twilight due, too,

And reign King, stand bearing thrones of ore?

Yet. Your feet. They’re cold. Through days—old—long—gloom—

Red eyes beat. Prayers told in blue rot, too soon.

Set your greets ’way where souls sin, rue, do woo.

Rest now, Rest.

Rest.

(Rest.)

(Rest.)