Enter the cold no-man’s land,
A dump of wire and the dried bread.
Five o’clock coming over the horizon
With a rain of bullets — and the crowds of
Soldiers from another messy war;
And each man fixed his bayonet on the final stroke.
Under the brown fog they flowed over the trenches,
Listening for the dead sound from the whistle blower.
And death came in the copper smoke — tin
Soldiers dropping dropping dropping,
Picked and shoveled into the dry cracked earth.
Hands rattling coffins like metal leaves on a rake,
Their gait to the afterlife crutched into obscurity.
Priests kneeled in blood searching for divinity —
Rosaries waning in the cold,
Praying hands bruised trying to resurrect the departed.
White-colored flags hang in a stagnant draft, their
Shadows in the empty rooms of the living.
The war is over — the dimness, the thick green
Panes of light, as under a green sky drowning; no longer
Do the dead trees give shelter,
No longer the stroke of dawn, or the mudcracked bones.
Copyright © 09/19/17 lance sheridan®