Signs of a Struggle
Pity the dead, face frozen in shock,
the leaking skin and empty bone clawing
the victor for mercy, its eye’s last look
thrown into a hole with a face full of dirt.
Pity more the living, unburying the unfeeling
dead, bearing all their loads, a rag to hide
the bashful body, a conceit the shy mind,
eyes tearing into a cold dirty wind.
And pity most the poet’s, bearing slayer and slain,
the horrible and the horrified, scanning the crime
and convulsing out inadequate rhymes from discard,
songs from discord, and visions from the hideous sight of history.