Thought

There is a silence on the battlefield of thought.
When no longer hear the song of the brave,
only the still, hushed anthem of the shot
and the mothers with their children in the grave.

Their song is as mournful as death,
yet as elegant as royalty’s robe.
As hope lies with them beneath evil’s hot breath,
They sing of going home.

This is the music of thought.
Of the tickings and tocks of my mind,
that lays desolate, distraught,
of the eureka’s they must leave behind.