Low you hang, rusty point, in the southeast—
perhaps a distant dried and burning rose,
or lamp to men who long to face the beast.
To me, you are a popped zit on God’s nose.
And ‘tis to be forgiven, I suppose
like Byron said. My! we have othered Cain
yet make each war a great cause which arose.
To Resurrection’s farm, bald Dunsinane,
you point. We follow fast and make a crown of pain.

Poet’s Note:

The above is a style of verse called the Spenserian stanza. I invite you to read another example: The String Once Plucked

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