Last War

Entangled roots
And barren tongues
A ground with bounds
Buried in soot
Corpses unsung
Gaspings of young
As grudge is crowned
Failings compound
The selves construed
Get gutted good

Funeral

Long ago at your old friend's funeral
Outside through a soft snow flurry I saw
Your flawlessly fine face faintly aglow
Your arms full of the fairest fresh flowers
Your gloved fists and your gorgeous gloomy eyes
Braving the ghoulish cold getting ready
To bury a very scary fairy
Tale of love that's wild and willful and wrong
This wilted willow has wasted away
For too long so here I watch you and wait

Tragedy of the Little Goat

The moonlit rows of roses guard
my garden's grace.  They taste so good 
to Goldberg's goat.  It coughs and burps 
and rams my door.  Gobbles my reds,
repays in dung.  The scent of stool
should guard my plot.  I shake my head,
I sigh, sit down.  But soon it's she
who turns and eats, my full goatee.