. . . my muse was wondering.....

Upon my breast, splayed, and
run empty of our forbearers,
It sits with bloodied talons,
kneading the very muscles
of my quiet, erst' manly heart, and
peck . . . peck. . .pecking . . .
bowing its knotted head
into my twisted entrails,
disemboweling me
with a flick of its whetted beak.

Who looks for me?
Who would come for me before
my meat is stripped, and
my bones are bleached and brittle?

I lay in my ruddy bed of earth
having ate the blade of contention
on this field of savage men.
I see now,
the same wings of death,
flutter and perch
on swollen bodies
of ambiguous honor, for
they make no distinction
between the taste of carrion.
Even the hounds will lap the blood
that pools into one.

And no more a lithe maid
will I heed slip by a mullioned window,
nor divine her fleeting smile...
So vainly spent these earthly prayers.

I took the thrusted blade
with pride into my breath, and
opened my eyes to the mysteries,
as its bearer twist it free.
And on my knees,
I felt, still, the yellow field
quake with the rampage
of man and beast,
and heard the battle cries
rebound against the cliffs
of their kingdoms, and
I fell in the knowledge
I waged both faith and outrage
with the best of brother and foe.

Whose rotting meat lies aside me?
Be this mine brother‘s axe asleep in an enemies' heart?
And this an enemies' spear run through mine brother‘s eye?

The battle cry sings the reaper’s dirge
as he billows his sails with
a sweep of his staff, and drifts across
this field of glory.

jeanne rene 8/03