The Glory of Men

A pile of bones,
Brittle as the day they fell apart -
The wind is unbearable,
All life was carried from it long ago.
The sound of struggle, a whisper in the hills,
Faint and fading away, it chills the spine.
A pig pole holds aloft an ancient trophy,
Still blanketed in flaky scarlet.

The negotiations of men, blood and flesh,
Given for love, for justice,
Given for overripe sovereignty,
Fat from suckling the commonwealth
Straight down to the sinew.
A tale of beasts brazen and of shining wonders,
Sheathed in the breasts of men,
All for the majesty of pomposity.

A lone elk wanders this lake of souls,
Pure in his unawareness of men.
The wily creature bows his head,
To pay homage to glory long forgotten,
To nibble at the greenery beneath him,
Who can discern the motives of such a beast?
In the sunlight, ancient glory is relinquished,
This now is his land, his burden; the bones have gone.