I’ve been dreaming of the spoils of war.
Your face, smeared with the blood of all who opposed us,
Drifts dark and unnerving in the forefront.
As I struggle to recall a day when grass was green
And soot remained in mines,
The explosions that melded them together as one
Blaze behind my quiet eyes;
Their every terrible shard claiming a due
Tears can not repay.

Stone-faced,
On the limbs of our comrades,
We stand
Under a brow of stagnant cloud,
Masking suns as alien as laughter and wind chimes.
Our hands, chapped and callous, press together
And as I measure every freedom won, scar carved, and colour lost
The hardness in your eye mimics the cruelest lashing.
Here, as my heart plumbs new depths, I know—
That as sure as the sun will rise and chimes will sing,
We, handheld lovers,
Staggering victors,
Children of the spoil—
Will never escape the blood.