Some things are bad for evolution.
Like revolutions.
Souls rise on the battle field,
AM steam off a warm lake in winter.
They ride the convection to heaven.
But in the damp log cabins with no boots by the door,
a mother cooks for two.
She has to.
As the laughing tongue fire dances upon the obsydian of sleepless eyes,
a baby cries,
and she's once again buried by the work of a mother.
Meanwhile her warrior is buried by another.
Some things are bad for evolution,
like revolutions.
Don't be a mouse, be a lion
