Betrayals of love make for fancy dance.
In the minute declensions of Force goes
a drive Green in the eyes of that Dylan
that blasts the Roots of Trees and does destroy
as it Veers so perilously close between glows
of red of green of red of green like some Small
Hearts being mended, bit by bit, let us Show
that we came to Verses when insulted
and before no short attempt via Peaceful Means.
Hence, it is War War for Peace and Militant
Love. What you call Poetry, I call Fate.
One does not Take up Arms for a slight. Yes,
Friends and Most Certainly Enemies: I grant
You the Luck of some Hated Black Irish.
Oh Yes, San Patricio, I get what you Mean:
Poetry is War is Poetry is
I Gather my Shield, Sword, and Green Clover.
And I hear over my Left shoulder as a Hawk
Hovers nearby the Union office a Phrase:
No Justice No Peace Ni Una Mas c/s
This Sonnet is a Fictional Work. Any perceived, apparent, or implied relationship to entities or persons is coincidental.
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