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?