3rd Spartan Row

Late black flowers here; arcing spears trace bright half- moons in the yellow sun. Where aching chests heave, fall to breathe little from suffering holes, caught with blood. Pretty dear loves revenge. She sings impassioned, to hope for those who come to call. A heavy cloud drags, tears her down now. Daggers gleam to catch an eye. Shouts revealing voices, unfamiliar and joyous. It is lonely to realize that she is alone.