raw like beauty
we like to say war is beautiful and
brave and heroic, how the bitter, bitter smoke
rises like fleeting butterflies coughing up ash,
how claws scrape against each other like silver,
like glinting courage and valor and we are gallant
and the crimson tints the midnight backdrop so
deep and flushed. how the silken air is crossed
and cut with intrepid cries.
(we are only lying.)
we like to say that we die as heroes, fighting for
the ones who keep living on. we like to think
we are remembered, we have fought well and
there is something left, still and always, hanging above us
like shrouded skies and empty bones.
(the stiff languor split with sighing.)
we like to say that the stars are waiting
because they seem so bright from way down here.
we like to think we are made of light, so we'd
shine just as clear as we would when we're gone.
we aren't made of violence and desperation
and raw, real exhilaration when our claws
make those scarlet spills stain the land like graves.
we like to think we aren't lying.
(but that can't stop us from dying.)
