Liberté
Thy pen; no mighty sword here preach
Where words, metallic, fall.
On blood-ink lines; stained city streets -
Oh time, thou horrors crawl.
Wrought freedom flits, it waxes, ebbs,
Whence censored bullets rain,
But fallow not among the dead
Doth liberty remain.
Copyright © Simon Austin 2015
M.C. Newberry
Tue 13th Jan 2015 16:15
This is good! If I were to change one thing, it
would be to replace the archaic "Doth" with a
more hopeful "Will" in the last line.