Words come like marching men in battalions stomping mossy battle grounds
They, brave hearted stones—steady, rooted mountains
Their chests like Eagle’s breasts—expanded, lifted
Porous fields of mud, ready to soak the heart’s spilled blood—crimson woven to pages flocking upon winds turning
Birthing history—the fight song
Struck the dirt—stamping lines
Sculpting notes, sounds, and images
Men marching—words stomping
Candles burning a glow upon the shadowed, white pillows of slumber
A flower’s roots escape to depths of porous mud
Nigh, a root’s heart blossoms upon surfacing waves of springtide’s eternal and priceless gem