Battle Field: Unknown

Will anything change here.

Will the earth, a canvas,

painted with our fear,

painted with our tears,

and sweat,

and blood,

be anything more

then a stop on some tour.

 

Will school children break rank

stare into the cold sanguine

green, green, grass

and see eyes, empty, staring back.

 

Will a lone man drive by

on a steel asphualt

mark time marching

o'er our broken bodies highway

flashing his gun powder headlights

bright as cannon fire white lights

on reflections of gnashing teeth.

 

No.

Nothing will change.

There are no etheral spirits here to clang chains

only ephemeral blood already sprung from veins.

 

All that, here, will ever change

is that I will live

and he will die

and God will weep

and I, for my sorrow, regretably,

will never be so deep,

will merely cry.