Way back when …
If you lean a little closely you might hear the guards of war
they are nibbling, a small bit nimble, from their corners
call them angels, gods, or soldiers, call them boldly from your phones
but don’t doubt they are the sort to prelude mourners
Some staring triple-visioned, those prophetic, with softer hearts
they can almost make the outline to the triggers
they know where the atoms hide at, spot the heat that sin imparts
and calculate the place where bodies need no diggers
But what is that? you have your own chest, it speaks out its own peek forth
you can hear the jeeps which lug great tubes of light
light that splits the dark of men, light which heals no soul, not inward
but light that threats to cure the earth greats blight
half of you bids it onward, that collision of all heats
that moment where a slip connects all passion
but also in your bosom, in your spine, and in your feet
something deep like dread bursts through your fashion
It’s fear, it’s raw, it’s bold as day, it’s there within the rivets
like a germ of steel that breaks the bridge of men
but you are built in God’s own image, can’t that save you, when all hate visits?
… only if you’ve made your bed so way back when
