This Imperial Blonde War Burns Under a Crimson Moon
I am in the hive
standing on lions of stone
seeking guidance from
a twisted olive branch
holding a laughing axe
unable to swing
my arm is frightened
like a dried gourd
my heart beats fast
lips are dead leaves
feet push through
clipped angel wings
a line in the blood-soaked sand
writ by a severed hand
a bee dances
the way to the flower
Randolph Nesbitt
Posted over on Poets Against The War
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