To each blackened shape,
A pencil can fill in the stars
To make the light
Inside the hurt and still-life
Void upon the surrender.
There is gentle music,
Bled as tears over the wash of you.
Keep us burying the independent flag,
For one concealed in plainest immaculacy.
To the ruins we shaped as blackened images.
We refuse, though are unable to ignore.
We damage each song we attempt to write,
Pour white-out on the muted notes.
We fold our forms about the stolen aura
From the Northern fields,
Glistening towards where we fell.
Burying the shape,
Keeping twin faces on the surrender,
The flag with a heavier pole.
Keeping the shape.
Exploring the light
That we released at our naked palms,
Just as one firefly upon a misted night
If only to be buried as a seed.