A granular lair, 
away and disposed 
a solitude gnashed 
with the tire of a van. 

Of partial grounds, a foam, 
a welcome foretold 
misgiving the seconds 
of a playful crawl. 

The infant ignites 
a faith to the cross 
like a shield from a warrior 
leaving reason at charge. 

What frail life to have 
diluted in thoughts? 
My spot of endless dreaming 
will not seek far below. 

My wrath has felt denial 
to pause the neck of its clause 
giving a flame as a final 
approach to the Sun. 

Every land has its cost, 
unnerving wheel of calm 
bodies flowed by the exile 
of a penitent strum. 

War has been a fat liar, 
bombinating the storm 
laying sick on a cliff 
where the peace has been blown secured.