Higher up than the
gangly Sunflowers
that oversee the
well-being of the roses,
up higher than the top
of the white picket fence,
o’er the roof tops, the rocky cliffs;
we look up higher toward the
floor of the fat lazy cloud,
somewhere in the nigh
where wars are waged
over disputed boundaries marked
out by barbed wire fences,
where the cold iron air
battles the warm,
fighting for dominance
over the other, the eternal clash
between armies of the hot and cold,
war horses galloping in the wind,
warriors with war clubs and spears,
grenades and missiles and bombs,
louder than the loudest
clap of thunder that maims
the brittle ears of the earth
and awakens the lazy clouds
that lay around the mountain peals, from a deep sleep,
a war-zone below the heavens,
the tyrannical ruler of the winds,
a cold spirit rising up from the dust,
a smoldering corpse laying at its feet,
a headless specter clasping a scroll
with the secrets of the mystic skies,
the skies unseen with the naked eye,
a space beneath a deeper space
where eternal wars are waged
as the iron air fights for dominance
in the unsettled skies,
the mightiest over the weaker.

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