angelic faces under cuts and abrasions
dipping low to scour the seas,
naval strength that forges the waves
into anvils of cold calculations
taken away from the teat of sanity
engorged on fantasies left to fester
from whence we came
struggles the barbs of hatred
the cynosure is waiting,
man’s time spins on less than a dime
does so little matter
that our raconteurs have abandoned us?
bring forward the speech
that will wash our hearts with sense
in the wistfulness
that only history can remind us of.