We have bruised ourselves with war
how deeply our souls abide in the wounds,
abounding with the amputations of hearts and every reason,
From one to many times
the treasure of the soul
until no longer whole,
the coldness of sound makes a guardian of
A marching breath,
frozen in ourselves as learned,
thunder rollings of harden hearts,
rounded into rocks.
from which we take the notion of freedom
placing in our slings, words as colored stones
teaching our children to follow.
Our roads are staked with signs of void spaces
imprisoning ourselves with amusements,
where our souls are consigned for pawn at the every corner.
The darkness is black dew upon our brows
Our inventions take flight into the universe
but the soul has no place to land.
Battered, the soul knows nothing of the earth.
The capacity for tender seeding is stripped
of any mantel unto another.
The exit rings out with the throbbing of war in the smallest places:
Our one soul is no longer any kind of many
and the many wars against the many
leaves the soul conditioning,
itself, for the next war-step.