Proses Are Roses, Poetry Is Flames

In my small garden,I grow thousands of proses,I love every kind. Thorny, smooth, dark, bright,Their turns of phrase glare clear strength,Proses are roses. Yet when the fire,Burns me up from the inside,Leaving my prose dead… Something else rises,Rhymes and haiku,...

Blood on My Hands

The iron nails still held between my teeth, The ringing hammer still clenched in my fist, My hands still bleed from when I made your wreath, As I throw the dice with a vicious twist, Hoping for the robe of the dying king, Cleaning the sword I plunged into your side,...

Victorious Lies

Wandering in the wastes we have won, Feeling the dead wind on our faces, Won through lies and deception, Cheating and death and endless maces. Eating the flesh of other men’s years, Letting them steal the cow’s cud, Children’s deaths bring mothers’ tears, As they...