We mellow soldiers and callow sons of Rome,
contently ill impressed by our house at home,
are cemented still by the worthlessness of mentioning:
we marched and lamented every mouse that roams.
We think their sense of tension is demented or alone.
We fairy-hunters and merry blinding souls,
intrepidly raring behind faces of binding oaths
are embittered by a wild haze of eye-lit phrases.
We're daringly insipid disgraces to behold so
our children are cold but unhaunted by gold.
When a smiling star embraces us with promises
the ghost beside us forgets that its a solipsist
and tries to replace the silence with deafening.
Surmising that intentions are unwise when beckoning
and the cries of sentience are the wires of reckoning
we know the sun is a reptilian seamstress.
Her tongues of dawn flicker through forests
of luscious romance and lustful foresight
from love and like lances entrusted to bite.
We're quiet cuz we're counterfeit
but nothing dies that's meant to live -
if we're alive then death's got no rights
no matter defines what life's got to give.