Eleven (slash) Twelve (pt. 3)


mothers will grease the wheels
while the age-addled trumpeters
volley their breath against the silence

war chariots march onto
the swamps, t’wards the dragons
with eyes watching backwards
waiting for someone to save them

these are the days of our lives

the callous cannibals crowing
for corpses with
the great imperial shield
on each chest
the signature verifying
the combined hopes and dreams of
wall street, main street, cork street