the Priest

a friend of mine wrote to me today
every time he does i can't help but wish i could see him speak instead of read him write

for some reason he is in paris through the winter
i dont know why and i dont plan on asking
he just is
details have always been of little consequence to either of us with regard to us

instead of watching him smile i have to fucking interpret ":)" in a paragraph
but because these:

:) happy
;) wink
:/ shucks
:I chubby
:* whistlin'
:( sad
:& sick
:# hungry
: blank

make me cry it may be easier to not read him anymore
that goddamn war is enough to make anyone crazy

:O screaming



Ask the high rising spears, of our aspirations
Bring witness the swords, did we lose hope
We are a band, honor halts our souls
Of beginning with harm, those who won’t harm us
White are our deeds, black are our battles,
Green are our fields, red are our swords.