Trenches
The sun sets and divides.
It leads to death or to eternity.
Ghosts call to the trenches.
With a trace, each step muddies us.
The mechanical eye looks at the world through the cross.
Spooky mushrooms sprout after the rain.
Bloody horizons subconsciously shout.
Ghosts, ghosts!
Yesterday the children played war.
The flower fields are bleeding.
Golden wheat fields are trampled at dawn.
Ghosts are calling to the trenches!
Offline)
Comments1
of war fields, you speak
unmarked by history's battles
no, this
crimson scarring of earth
takes place
beyond public eyes, where
words and fists and worse
defile,
trusting unblemished hearts
curating
a generation's newly minted
warmongerers...
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.