The War in Heaven

Rich, so rich was your touch

But I tire of your wealth;

Purple glasses won’t crutch

This scattered murmur’s health.

The tempest has begun

To creep and though I can

Weather its hail, mock sun

Creeps through, all black and tan—

’Busive thoughts like soldiers

Parade into the room,

Bayonets and Folger’s—

Little steel cups of gloom.


Emboldened and so bold,

The phrase my fixation;

A fugitive paroled,

Becoming yours the more,

Oh, why do what you do?

You sever the bond. War

Vomits its old home brew.