while in the cornfields of unending space,
she wears a dress that stretches with the wind.
upon the broken dreams of unturned face,
there he set his stone-set sanctuary.
the rocks will build and reach for Babel-ward,
atop his Ballylee, his eyes will reach
what hurts the most, is not the soldier’s sword –
rather wait for the unending siege.
stumbling through the rubble, he finds
the bird has broken free, no man has seen –
the chains are gone, but oh the man is lost
entrapped in white yet flee, reality!
how shall I build my castle again,
with sticks and stones?
or bones I find in groans,
the blood among the brave,
or with O’Leary in the grave?
the cornfield stretches out,
fill it up.