From trumpet calls,
To flaming walls,
There are eyes upon debris
Of a scattered woman.
Her face empties my form,
Her eyes empty my mind,
Her love buries me behind,
Lets me fall from the wind
To see what I should have been.
The meager man, with nothing to hand
Of to the messenger, in tow.
His hand, covered with the strands
Of a thousand weddings with so many more bits
Of lace, to wrap the bride's own face.
Let love annoy the next man
Who cannot stand
To see where blood flows and flowers grow
Upon fields made of her breast,
Grown by her milk,
Loved by her silk,
To be ended by a thorn
Buried deep in the Earth's flesh.
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