I’ll fuck this poem up if I so choose,
I’ll drop a foot, my rhymes a stinking mess,
a metaphor so trite, so crap. I’ll lose
my reader’s eye in wrenched and anxious stress.
I’ll make them read it back, each broken line
of regimented men that stand and die
before the guns, and tread on every mine
they cross, but still, they’ll fly their banner high
on ground that’s punctuated red and white-
the only summer flowers left in bloom.
On ground where fir trees block the searing light
and earth is cool in bamboo thicket’s gloom.
On ground that’s crowned by dragon tree and oak,
On ground that’s free from fire, blood and smoke.


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