Ashes Poetry

Ashes

To the victor the spoils
To losers, desolation
Dark doors darken dark doors
Shuts out welkin light
Puts wood in hole, shafts
Of night shadows the clacked
Clappered tun of celebration
Wrings, wrings the pain and din
Until the black tattoo stops beating
Bleak timpani within each ear’s dismal drum
Before blood dangles ruby red from each lobe
A mute sign that you are dead.  It can’t hurt
anymore than this, that’s for sure
Which sets you out to win

David Fine