There are no patrons in war, only saints

since the passion for power lies in hearts,
not hands, not visions; battle's largess taints
goodwill amongst men and their love of arts:
Or so we think – but writing is like war,
when you look at the arm as letter –
the missive missile missing targets, or
the epistolary pistol header:
Dated, placed and sealed with the blood dreams,
and envoi-ed to Hell like murder ballads – 
Yes, Satan is dancing, singing in screams,
his feet spurred by coals, glowing so livid
This is a call-and-response, this blood song,
but no one repeats because I bled strong.
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