Patriotic embers of the stolen land
of milk and honey fade
before they touch the earth
like flecks of daybreak gold
becoming dust
in the crowded shade.
And the buildings, empty as a dead star
and the swine in suits,
feed our shadows to a rot of daisies
that burgeoned through concrete.
It will never be the fire, but either fate
or all its followers, who dance on shores
where viscous black waves break closer
beneath a sanguine sky, that brings
all dogs to scavenge.
When night lingers, the song of mourning
doves await the air
in a burst of glass and fuel.
Draft 3: The Poor Man's Dawn
Patriotic embers of the stolen land
of milk and honey fade
before they touch the earth
like flecks of daybreak gold
becoming dust
in the crowded shade.
And, empty as a dead star
and the swine in suits, the buildings feed
our shadows to a rot of daisies
that burgeoned through concrete.
It will never be the fire, but either fate
or all its followers, who dance on shores
where viscous black waves break closer
beneath a sanguine sky, that brings
all dogs to scavenge.
When night lingers, the song of mourning
doves await the air
in a burst of glass and fuel.
Draft 2: The Poor Man's Dawn
Patriotic embers of the stolen land
of milk and honey fade
before they touch the earth
like flecks of daybreak gold
becoming dust
in the crowded shade.
And, empty as a dark star
and the pigs' suits, the buildings loom
as monuments to suffering,
feeding shadow to the flowers
that burgeoned through concrete.
Beneath their jackboot grows the dream
that transcends memory and pounds
behind our ribs. Cool bright wind carries lavender from linens tugging on a clothesline. Now,
viscous black waves break closer.
When night lingers, the song of mourning
doves await the air
in a burst of glass and fuel.
Draft 1: The Poor Man's Dawn
Patriotic embers of the land
of milk and honey fade
before they touch the earth
like flecks of daybreak gold
becoming dust
in the crowded shade.
And, empty as a dark star
and their suits, the buildings loom
as monuments to suffering,
feeding shadow to the flowers
that burgeoned through concrete.
Beneath their jackboot grows the dream
that transcends memory and pounds
behind our ribs. Cool bright wind carries lavender from linens tugging on a clothesline, now
viscous black waves break closer.
When night lingers, the song
of the mourning dove awaits
in a burst of glass and fuel.
