High above the battlefield glide
beacons of the departed.
Airborne flocks do yield
to the freshly shorn and martyred.
Smell the dregs of conflict
as vultures sense this doomed convection.
For nothing rises but despair:
Our war's taste is their confection.
YOU ARE READING
Voyaging
PoetryI was going to call this 'Quantum Poetry' or something that suggested that there was an ambiguity attached to the writing. More than that, I want to explore notions of why we think things exist as they are - an existential view, reflected against ho...
