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The poets lie

With marigolds and wild grasses

Drunk in their Dionysian contempt for day break

They’ve abandoned their fervor

For lamenting threats of absent love

Where broken mouths cry amen

A justice tempered by mercy

Writing letters only for ghosts

Atonement for the debt of beauty

Tossed in to the occidental seas

What is owed glory

But a meadow made for morrow

Which too may beg your borrow

Building mountains

Even covered in snow we’ll throw

Stolen language

A silhouette grown tall and strong

What of the songs we’ve sung

But mercenaries to the setting sun

Does the earth deserve our charm

Silent speech onto cold bones

Draped sheets on sharp stones

Corporations of thieves which quarrel quick

A forgotten hand upon lip