To Phobos

I strip away the indolent cower
For fear did not create this tower;
Upon this rock it holds no power;

Over this wild being, restraint
Is not the palette, not the paint -
It will not mar, it will not taint,

Nor will it sacrifice the art
Inside the throbbing savage heart.
But it will be a burning part
Raging against eternal dark.

So bring the metal anvil through,
And let me smash the night in two,
Sheep herd, murmur quick adieus

To foul, troubled winters bleak.
For are storms quiet, are they meek?
Is not mad winter what men seek?

Is this what evolution primed
Year after year, time after time,
That man churn out falsetto mimes,
Whilst tired with his daily grind?

I will rise up, and say this much:
That disappointment cannot touch
Those men who shape their lives in such

Boundaries and chained confines
Which assets grasp and then refine
The future hope for the divine.

But neither can he feel the sun
Of bravery radiant upon
Green fields of dreams that he has spun
That only through action is won.