Nocturne: Battlefield Sonnet

featured in Rumsfeld’s Sandbox

The night is beautiful, beautiful
with the raspy breath
of live fire. Explosive. Death
tastes sweet like black cherry, a spool

of brut kisses, or crystal meth
with soda pop. Even a fool
can smell the pheromone of ferrous cool
in a coiled cloud. The smart head of Seth

sits on a pedestal of bronze
beaming like a tributary to love.
Hands of steel firm a grip on time, a glove
fit to spark a light touch of fear upon

us. In the end we’re not near as mortal
as the eyes that peer back through that sad portal.

first published in Breadcrumb Sinsx