The Lone Flagman

Here's a longer piece of mine. Thanks for taking a look!

On the mountain's peak there stands a man,

bruised and battered by torments of war;

He is holding a flag proudly in his hands,

waving it ceaselessly as the wind soars.  

At this mountain's foot a grassy field,

covered with eyes that cannot see;

their faces lie cold and unconcealed,

condemned like fruit from the poisonous tree.    

These hollow stares watch in silence,

this flag which waves its colors high;

and the man beneath it seems so timeless,

saluting the bones of those who died. 

Their deaths, a sacrifice of life,

the greater purpose still unclear; 

pierced by axes, swords and knives,

an end in vein is what they fear.

Their dwells they spread in soaring winds,

which carry the waving flag observed;

eternally departed from next of kin,

they silently scream of fates undeserved. 

These screams send echoes to the mountain's top,

and give this tormented man sensation; 

his eyes are crying,  he cannot stop,

he's a victim of his own creation. 

The flag still waves above his head,

it continues as if unaffected;

his gaze is fixed upon the dead,

their bodies forever lie neglected. 

He gives no comfort to any soul,

although he waves throughout the night,

the lives below no glory showed,

the flag he waves is colored white.  

Author's Note

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