Trumpets

I shall never know
a timbre of clarion call,
if it doesn’t strum the cord of my heart
because I fear the thundering hoofs of cavalry.

But of bugles blowing their defiance
against the tempest gusts
upon sacrificial plains,
there is bewitchment for the slumbering soldier,
beguiling with a warrior’s flare.

Ears sharpen in the saber serenade,
heart sheathed in the armor of militia ardor,
affixed in the surging satiation,
ire of legions unto anthem causes
inflames in the enticing charge.

Unable to deny the lure of saddle oblations,
those spells that sway to more than watch,
yielding to conviction’s banner,
while lifting a throbbing sword within the spirit
to do more than drag its shimmering emblem
across indifference’s soil.

Patriots ride by the dulcet tones
of compulsion’s psalm,
as its music has power
for transcending any retreat of indecision
and making crusaders
out of lives
hibernating among lethargy’s drifts.