The Value of Inconsistence

By: Rosalind Black

Civil brawls and stately make carrions

Of rosy liveries soon bred.

But the account thereof,

And every variation on its tune

Grows in the tongue,

And all young eyes know

War’s passion before the dead

While Mars himself grows sick from an un-healing wound

Ever deeper gashed by vain Posterity.

Yet it is Posterity, on a wheel spun,

That leads men to a conception of their tempests.

For fight, though thick and constant,

Ever dies anew.

And ink and feather long set to recreation,

Leaves its time immortal.

As hellish confrontation kills all men it is in this:

Such words shall never die.