Compelled by visions of faith,
they lived on ink and sweat.
They died—
their blood spilled ebon and fleet:
tumbling from bridges
burning in Italy
wasting through Africa
guttered by America.
What rough magnificence
fled from their skins
to angels underneath?
What smooth eloquence
flowed from their pages
as martyrs’ defense?
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Always maudit. Never maudlin.
Poetry, with a dash of prose.
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