The Red Baron Ain’t Got Nothin’ On Me

Come, come to be kings
and stark riders in the night
with mustard gas in their lungs
and gin on their lips,
where roads end and begin
with no ending or beginning
and the decay of the body
is all that fills the nostrils
from dusk to dawn.

The decay-and roses-that is.

Roses, blooming on every square inch of this land,
exploding in reds and whites and pinks and yellows,
dyed by the rivers of blood
and tears
and flesh
and pus,
letting the dead live again,
dotting the landscape with reminders
we will all too often forget.



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