(no subject)

[apiphile]

runnymede

my how the rotten hours lie;
they promise they'll go meekly by
instead they lurk and crowd the light
and the days go sluggish to the end.

a great charter laid down on an eyot
observed by a yew tree in 1215, standing
in uninterested deep forest green;
the tree stands still, observing
a very different world.

the yew grew before such strife
continued to live a yewish life
and will remain until it does not
there upon the river's eyot.

the signatories of that charter sought
only to win. it is the fate of men;
they love to win. only to win. winning
battles, winning money, winning women,
winning friends; there is nothing but the
contest: and then for them all, winning ends.

no one escapes death. the men who signed
the men who fought, the ones who won
the ones who lost: all laid down and fed the earth;
the yew is standing still.

my how the rotten liars lie; they twist the truth
and reckon the cost. it's all a game,
they play to win. let them.
the yew is standing still, and it will
until it does not, there upon the eyot.

my how the wretched die:
as inevitably as the victors,
and no more.