And then the battle began. It’s not
a pretty fable, this time the lord
of plenty up against the dark of
nothingness, indefinable unless
you’ve seen a dead body or stood in any
cemetery. For a long time there was
nothing, some vague threats over the radio.
Even the Apricot trees bloomed. There were
always rumors of war when we were young.
Nothing now but old swords swinging
in the wind. In a county not unlike
ours each little town is an armed camp
of rifles and the miles go by
on highways built for tanks and heavy trucks.
If you see the pictures there are
young men holding each other
hostage. Imperial Moloch and
solitude have brought them there.