Nein Kampf

Nothing worth having is
without
its longest nights.

No wars worth
their salt come
without a human fault.

When tea lights are all
your tired optimism can muster,
and you lust for the
dying flicker of melted wax
and wilting wickers

to blow you down,
finish
the job;

you’ve got to stand tall,
you’ve got to rally;

for when
back alleys become
templates for city squares,
and hate is
the only quality
a people have left to share;

when civilizations lie
in rubble, your
words are
the shovel clearing
away intolerance, lending
solace to
bereaved who wonder what
to call their
grief.

You’re our
only sense of
chastity in

this long-perverted rhapsody,

all that’s empowering
something born forever powerless.

In this world run
by cowardice, nothing worth keeping is
without its
fight,
the endless nights or
a life spent searching the bottom to set

the ship right.

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