These knives drip cerise history
The life blood of past martyrs
Have been absorbed by sandy gravel
Knives crafted to feed our names
To our virgin soil; our earth
Tilling our plots of land into stories
We will create our own sacred ground
And having decided the right hand caused hurt
Is it right to cut it off, and reel away, cerise
Stumbling, stump-wrapped and promising it will heal?
Is it right to leave bloodstained trails to the horizon
And call back that it’s fine over there, no problem?
Meanwhile my bridges ignite faster than I can build them
And the way back has been covered by an avalanche
I stand in a non-cage of mutual decision
And keening, cradle my cheek
In your cold palm.
I will learn to be silent
And wish you well
But I will always be here.
HASTYWORDS 
Makes me want to know what happens afterwards. Lovely work!
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OH! NO! is this the fate of all poets or just the bad ones? Primary reader excepted.
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And having decided the right hand caused hurt
Is it right to cut it off, and reel away, cerise
Stumbling, stump-wrapped and promising it will heal?
Is it right to leave bloodstained trails to the horizon
And call back that it’s fine over there, no problem?
Meanwhile my bridges ignite faster than I can build them
And the way back has been covered by an avalanche
I stand in a non-cage of mutual decision
And keening, cradle my cheek
In your cold palm.
I will learn to be silent
And wish you well
But I will always be here.
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That was a good one.
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Brilliant well done.
They say Eire is so lush with green from all the blood that was shed.
Cuireann ceo spéire Éire an fharraige abhaile go móinte mé
Primal R.e.p.r
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https://evolutionofselffeedyourhunger.wordpress.com/2021/08/30/horizon-mist
Slainte
Alex
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