Poetry's Pet

Wings of air, earthen feet,

Watery fins and fire for teeth.

Scream the primal song of death,

Whisper consolement to those who are left.

Death reaches down, and gives War a hand,

Life reaches out to heal the shattered land.

The pale horse comes, Death rides still.

Creator, oh God, why was it your will?

Blood flows in, souls flow out.

To mute your own crimes, bind others' mouths.

Golden nimbus, halo of gold,

Surrounds the head of a friend untold.

Tears unshed while he was alive,

Now that he's gone, pities grow and thrive.

Down comes the poet, spilled all his ink;

Down go the listeners, never more to think.

Patrick W. Crocker ©