Banners of Desperation

It is imperative we deviate from the hard life of our times,

Stressing the color of the skyline in our blood

And the bedrock of our bones. So many hours

On the battlefront, and moments in procreation,

That children may carry the banners of our desperation

Completely forward to victory, that our graves

May refund to the harvest of their happiness

Retribution from death. But otherwise

We must take what lonely wonder remains in our hearts

To make a liturgy of passion: beauty in the fonts

Of corruption, for we are not brave. From chance

Stealing the innocent pleasure of lies,

And delight in an angelic cluster of flowers

Upon the mountain-top, saddle tightly girthed

And cinched about the belly of a horse, lost

And stolen and ridden up butte and down gulley.

Every man's single steps are free but of hunger:

A world to explore and the sunset ever before him.

In various countries that fight the new millennium

There are colors beyond recall; duplicated

In no rib of the earth known by other men;

And there is marriage there with fleeting happiness,

The bouquet we take to the grave

Is built of such isolated flowers; no matter

Some have wilted and dried to dust in our hands -

The fragrance of hours remembered remains.