...tattered rows of drained bone, hanging flesh, wounded limbs, lifeless eyes, all staggered with rage. They lined the granite path that led to his appointed throne, not a word was spoken, the hush was violent enough.
He was not prepared to meet such blistering wrath, the cracked and unsmiling faces, all with such dripping loss. He was ill equipped and unready for their bony grief, so he did the only thing he knew, he splintered a dreadful grin. You’ve done America proud. You’ve served your country with honor. The road was long, the fight, arduous, but you are home now and we will honor you for your hard-won accomplishments. The crow of death no longer waits on thee.
The granite was quite under the push of their bodies, their silence floating in the air like an old dog slumped from the beatings of a gutless master. Warriors, whose illustrious hues were bleached from airless days, caught him unawares with such gruesome stillness. As he sat, pondering the moment upon his throne, their vacant rumblings cried, Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! so he did the only thing he knew, he splintered a dreadful grin.
The dead can’t make pretty speeches that echo more lies, or write stale accounts of war, or be heroes in a child's life. They cannot lunge at us with rifles, or clank their bones in protest against the walls of weapon factories.
He was not prepared to meet such blistering wrath, the cracked and unsmiling faces, all with such dripping loss. He was ill equipped and unready for their bony grief, so he did the only thing he knew, he splintered a dreadful grin. You’ve done America proud. You’ve served your country with honor. The road was long, the fight, arduous, but you are home now and we will honor you for your hard-won accomplishments. The crow of death no longer waits on thee.
The granite was quite under the push of their bodies, their silence floating in the air like an old dog slumped from the beatings of a gutless master. Warriors, whose illustrious hues were bleached from airless days, caught him unawares with such gruesome stillness. As he sat, pondering the moment upon his throne, their vacant rumblings cried, Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! so he did the only thing he knew, he splintered a dreadful grin.
The dead can’t make pretty speeches that echo more lies, or write stale accounts of war, or be heroes in a child's life. They cannot lunge at us with rifles, or clank their bones in protest against the walls of weapon factories.
© 2008 mrp/tpm
This is almost too much to bear. It makes me cry right from "the hush was violent enough."
ReplyDeleteChilling in its truth.
ReplyDeleteUtah S,
ReplyDeleteI hope it was a cry that served a noble purpose, my friend.
Dearest Pagan,
Thank you.
wonderful. absolutely wonderful.
ReplyDeletegraeme,
ReplyDeleteThank you, sir. I am glad you find it so.