Armed Forces

Along with terror, there sweeps over the warrior 

in a seething tide of blood red waves, ecstasy. 

And each head is carefully adorned

after it is put atop the pike, looked at

like long lost pieces of childhood gone for good; 

kissed by some on drunken, singy nights. 

Weapons are hung by the fire with care, when asked

old salutes brought out as dusty collections

for gawkers in a museum of single-hearted beasts.  

Their minds discarded, their wings too old to hold weight, 

and the ecstasy now is in the promise of death.