Member Poem

The gravely hordes of Sweverton swept down to meet
            the Arbiters.
The Arbiters wore claws and wigs, a world replete with
            their own sun.
 
“Listen!” cried the Bluegone Boy, his eyes like agates
            blazing high,
“In the ruins and clines of Sweverton, dogs are barking
            as they run.
 
“And strafed along Van Glower Lane where peacocks
            break their stride,
the men and ladies, gentle both, have shored their
            specious pride.
 
“Listen hard!” he cried in pain, his voice blown
            catgut wild,
“We can die in bed or die with spurs, but they’ll
            never let us ride.”
 
They put the Bluegone Boy in chains, strapped him
            tight to Swever Gate,
all through the bangs of dirty day and in the
            hollow point of night.
 
Beneath the bruised black clouds he hung until
            his tongue lolled dry.
The ravid hordes and their liken ilk knew Dread Time
            had arrived.
 
So we strive in meant-to-be while blood flowers
            dark and light,
and the chosen of the hemisphere consume their
            spacious rights.
 
So we dream in ought-to-be with the craft of
            midden lies.
The stench that dwells in Swever Square is nothing
            to our lives.