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.
Image by Christelle PRIEUR from Pixabay