Long the war had torn the world apart

with souls the casualties and souls the cause.

The enemy ensconced and great in art

made war the hope, and hopeless doom the laws.

Silent lay the prophets’ dusty truths

that glittered once like lanterns in a mine.

The wise men slept in silence while the youths

hoped for dung and trampled pearls like swine.

But still a restless silence haunts the air,

a promise coming long in pith and plan,

it wends its way across the death and scare

set like flint: the silent marching Man.

The guns belch flame, a raging death demise

and panic stricken, seek to guard their prize.

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Image by Christelle PRIEUR from Pixabay