Hot War

Morning.

Another savage iteration.

Days of the long drawn ice,

veins of cold that no longer flow,

and waves that no longer crash.

Rail against hardship.

Hide deep in down duvet catacombs.

Listlessly still the mind

and ward the soul

with wine and gold,

’til spring comes.

There is no better time

for a hot war.

Let the weak stay chained to their comforts.

Noblemen still cut and stack the cordwood

that keep the fires at home burning.

and put food in the bellies of their sallow children.

Suffer us one more dawn.

Another frozen sunrise.

Let our eyes ache

from the smoke of gasoline fires,

as the icy blast of fate

draws all of us from our knees.

In a few weeks,

we’ll long to dream of springtime,

but until then,

the day is upon us.

 

HG – 2020

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