The raucous gratitude of starved ravens
Drowns out the quiet speech of sanity
All of our warm, familiar, clean havens
Become cold, arid, hostile and filthy
Pile all of your plans and calculations
Your tidy theories and grandiose myths
Your anodyne rationalizations
Your rote condolences and monoliths
To bleach and be picked clean by small, sharp beaks
Along with the remains of our children
Your obtuse wrath a dry, false language speaks
By it, the truth about death is hidden
To remember the dismembered, no lull
War makes one ugly product: a stark skull
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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