The warpath was a liter of blood
poured from the warmonger’s mouth.
Southward opened new distractions.
Swift reactions from plebs of all stripes.
We in our heads were ripe for redaction.
And so it was. Twelve sick days ahead
of schedule and I was in love at half-mast,
half past the point of conjecture.
You measured the moments leading to bells.
The breath of hell moved softly over the ruins.