Bering Straight

call out the soul
in languages that hold no rhythem
that take no prisoners
that make men cry and
make women laugh
like that of warlords
that have killed in battle
the cackles
fray the day and the moment
and hold high the souls of men
who die into the youth
of children's pillows
the demons fly
through the night
on the radio waves
that lay chalk on the ground
as the wake of family
make waves that can not ever be touched
rogue I think they call them