Cherry Blossom Snow
Scheming Mona plots the penumbral hour
when lunar shape does clot the stalwart sun,
and begets below, betwixt the black and light,
the gray and gory thunderheads.
Those roaring fiends that rape the silent sky
and ravage stillest soils and souls beneath
crack ostentatious whips of sacred fire,
foreboding forthcoming spasmodic storm
of sordid cherry blossom snow.
Behold, the brooding dance they dance
in midst of mist of rose and fog of war,
and the gruesome snow-capped playgrounds
soused in vilest pink.
Sorry souls are spurred to spurn
against all fellow fiendish battlemates
in disturbed ballet of bombs and bloodied boys,
like pretentious saints and angels in
that sordid cherry blossom snow.
Behold, how time and heated games
do melt the ice-capped crags of rosy pink,
and flood the quiet streets and homes below
with horrid sea of sanguine,
and how those lifeless shells of human souls
float along the black and bloody flood,
and scream, with silent cries and quiet tongues,
against the gory thunderheads,
and stare in futile hope for sun or sky
with open mouths and itchy pointer fingers
and eclipsed ellipse eyes.
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