|
Even now my hand quivers,
Like grass awaiting an approaching storm,
It shivers at the sight,
The blood spilled, so crimson, so crimson;
Never again, I must refrain.
Death's sickle cut it's crop today, and yester day; and before,
Surely it has been sated?
I hope and fear;
I dream, nightmares visit often leaving me bereft of feeling,
Leaving my spine tingling,
My sanity for the taking;
Never again will I live,
Live the life I had before,
Now it is such a chore
To even raise my brow
Or to acknowledge a sunrise with but contempt.
Another young generation off to war never to return;
Patriot passion fans the flames,
My how it burns; brightly and fiercly yet waning.
I am ash;
Driven by subtle breeze between the headstones,
Coming to rest on the ghostly shoulders of fallen comrades
Never forgotten.....
Tom Stanly
|