hexed monolith
The marching of oil crusted boots
on broken wooden pickets
drown out songbirds on an
otherwise contented December morning,
a sound just as deafening as
a mothers cry when watching her
soul carted off.
Their battlefield, nothing but a market,
the currency of blood, bones and bullets
becoming more saturated by the day.
Children, forged into imitators of man
hadn’t time to question their actions,
nor desire to relive memories
swept under floorboards of their consciousness.
Instead placing faith in absent powers, praying,
nay begging they
bring them home
back to bliss.
Until then, they shall continue to march,
without the knowledge that
what would return in the shell of heroic statues,
would be nothing but
rounds of ammunition fired by those negligible,
and desperate, enough
to pull the trigger.
desert glen
misty scaffold
keen flume
sour niche