Empty as David’s seat, a befouled mouth shrieks
at high Sturgeon Moon, gasping for air–what
little can be had–within an offensive red sea,
which swirls malevolently throughout multitudes
of calloused feet, taunting us with decades of
dying heads.

Wrenched from ancient jaws with unremitting
brutality, sovereignty–smoother than pink root
and whiter than snow–gallops away from smoldering
earth around thick, sinuous necks.

Faithful soldiers, once unyielding in their loyalty, vanish
into a sylvan embrace, forever silent in their surrender.