Three stanzas of an unfinished sonnet:

[crows]

The World will ration out
. . . . its love and hate,
As it is measured by
. . . . the weight of blood
Upon your hands. And when
. . . . the hour is late,
You'll execrate the ground
. . . . on which you stood.

Would Victory not not live
. . . . upon its price?
You swell, triumphant, clutch
. . . . the Earthly fame
That 'round you furls the flag
. . . . of Sacrifice.
O martyr, bend your head
. . . . unto the flame.

Go, sit behind their tithes
. . . . of straw and gold.
Your paper palace raised
. . . . above the smoke
Of burning empires, where
. . . . your eye meets cold
The pages of a foe
. . . . you can't provoke.






[I've been staring at this for a while now]