Art In War - The Munitive
Poem By Donna Quesinberry
That Moral Law and code, now
Lacks pretense and virtue
There is no morality, there is danger.
The moral law, she died.
Night has become day.
Day has become night.
Seasons are skewed and tearful.
Heaven’s a quandary herself.
Between life and death
There is no measurement.
All Slovaks say they don’t
Want children. Death is in living.
The new commander is the old
Commander’s arch villain, glorified
and refrained from rooftops. Defiling
mother earth and she is vanquishing angels.
The ground is no longer marshaled.
It is congealed and regurgitated upon.
Masters are artificial greens keepers and
God is a melancholy agent of a past tribe.