Logos (Work in Progress)
by: E. A. Bartholomew

As lips and flesh on chilling cheeks are cherried
 With the morning's touch
 Although they wrinkle in the twilight's clutch,
So let day fade
 And night parade;
So let the sun be buried
 But march its fires on the moonlight's crutch;

And if the sun in summer sky burns sere
 But in the winter white
 Can't but reflect itself in icy light,
Then let it burn
 The eyes that spurn
 The turning of the year;
Then let its fires singe all ling'ring sight.

As lips and tongues in chilly cheeks defend
 Their shape in shallow plots;
 Seem capable of speaking as they rot,
So peace is sought
 Though war is fought
 Not till all battles end;
 Not till we cremate those we last forgot;

And if our sons in some strange sinking hour
 Find their hunger slain
 But avarice and rivalry remain,
Then let our ashes'
 Cinders' flashes
 Dilate and devour
 That surfeit our expansion sustains.