Aftermath

A small poem about the aftermath of war.

The screeches of the midnight sun. And the blood of September’s rain are the 

hideous remains left of last winter’s snow. Those who died and gave what they 

had. Lost their lives in the sand. Blood, justice, glory and honor all fall to the floor 

in this fight for freedom’s paramour. The fight it never ends and neither does 

the land. The fight must continue on and on. It never ends, there is always war. 

Only pain and suffering is the result in the aftermath of it all.

Reviews

[MoriartyMesa]

After math of an event can always be questioned, considered and discussed. By people who stood on the side lines, never the players, pawns, or troopers are asked of their thoughts.