What arms have a poet?
These flabby wings to lift
an instrument that will not fit
between the fingers of the soldier;
no heft behind its rest upon the page.
He does not hoard the black;
this pale rodent scrabbles and it oozes
from pitiful claws. The real man knows
the value of dark armour -- he wastes it not.
When drums and trumpets march
all good men as one, the poet stumbles
to a tune behind his own eyes; no flag
will bear his breeze, he flies his
standards far beyond.
What harm is the poet? Warriors branch
like oaks, standing strong against the world.
The poet is dandelion fluff, borne random
across desert and ocean, rooting by chance
where the crust will yield.