"A" Positive

This blood of mine is meant to last:
to spill onward into generations,
to carry the olive song of 300 deaths,
to pen the magnum opus.

There’s no warranty on blood;
it will leak out at the slightest,
betray in its boisterous crimson.
There’s always the fear it will dry up,
leaving you a shriveled prune of broken greatness.

They say it means “Victory of the People”,
every tortuous step carries their hopes.
What job it is to lament
in a world of wasted sorrows.

So when the time comes to choose:
to meld, mix, and let be,
may you harbor me faithfully
into the maw of future’s unknown—
may you remember me
as the collected euphoria flowing through this husk,
who if porous, would give every last drop
to make Victory real.

Of Dangling Carrots and Spyglasses

Winded into Hestia’s blinding ire
every gyrating thrust of melancholy dusk
closes the seam of solar empathy
Farewell decency, reality bears not this insidious weight,
let Atlas crumble before the stark horror of his burdens
never to lift nor leave
but damned always----twined Promethean causality

Love turns deciduous
shedding skins for zesty southern fantasy
molting coats, commandeering dreams
septically turning reality
into weathered agony

Wish away the dandelion breeze
may the continents provide proper pageantry
for the ovation of ethnic inter-connectivity
blinded by the glaucoma of universal intolerance.