Red Flag Dawn On White-hot Walls

 




A horrid cold is gilding
the hard-morning clay.

The horizon at dawn
is scorching on torrid faith.

& the anger shills a clash of walls.

At winter's end easing cloak to flame
where larger problems loom like tombs,
back to the front of Beyond, at last,
a single phalanx to stand or sand.

Waving whores of grain 'til plague or purse,
a dubious lord holding herd or horde
& bread on the block is to crop for heads
as the white winds croak on clocks of flesh.

Hits the earth with a spurt & a smile...
a gawking grandstand crimsoning clay.

These guardian spikes still hawking heads
where the portents line the castle walls.

A shadow of the self to scorch in the Sun.