LESS THAN BRIEF

Ah, for the rage,
For my sharp joints teeming
And grating beneath a dull rain.
For a damp moon shivering the deep,
Feeling your muse
And the rhythm of your swarm.
I’ve never again heard the like.

Worry on, bones, and crumble and forget,
Muster forth the ache of morn,
Where flesh turns a glazed gaze away away.
We wore through bombard,
And joints squealed with rage, rage.
Yours was rage and mine was fire,
Ours was an echo and death,
Shrill shot shrieking mistake, mistake.