Poetry: Ever Rest

is there a challenge ever new

defacing honor medals won

by climbing heights beyond the few

who dared to go where before none

could traipse through galleries

of war, desire dares, and crimson suns?


is there a triumph ever gray

as warring tides ’til death do part

by stabbing backs with iron moons

carved crescent by unholy arts

that crafted petrifying nights

of love, devotion, ceaseless hearts?


is there a greater ever rest

than pitching flags on Neptune’s ice

melted tepid by the march

of promise lands’ hard loaded dice

which drive sweet honor into rage

of starts and endings, all suffice?

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