there is a dark red sun


mechanized, and hot

it glows

with the fury of men


in their industry

breathing, charcoal dust

into their iron lungs

like machines



giving off

sick smoke

like Damascus steel

brittle and broken

because they took too much fire

pounded by hammers

willingly shaped

on an anvil

of their desire

to become something useful

a tool

a hook

a weapon, for war

these heroes, from the fire

cut down

beautiful fields

and fill them

with houses

their marching machines

built tough


in water

by their women

who care

to make them harder

the iron, is crushing

they aren’t supposed to feel

they are steel

accepting responsibility

Unlike, soft men

who know the real world

looking for a quiet place

to hide

to survive


Unwilling, to be molded by fire

they lie, in undeveloped fields

as long as they can

watching white clouds

float by

soft and light

just as they are

but even then

the red sun burns, up high

and solar winds

fuel their ambition

like a moth to the flame

a dream

for something perfect

they know, isn’t real

a woman can cause them to feel

for better or worse

Unlike men, shaped in the fire

These weak men

are like snails


on one foot

with tears, trailing behind

Do they have the guts to feel

to be dried up in the sun

or drown by rain

holding electricity

shocked, by electric clouds

feeling deeply, willing to feel again?

No one, can make your decisions for you

your choices will cut you wide open

revealing, your guts

what you are made of

the slow journey

is dangerous

Will you get out from under your rock

even when aware

of the furnace, in the sky

a hero

without responsibility

placing their hope

in dreams.


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