With each weary footfall
As we struggle with pain
Past the graves and markers
Of each avenue and lane
The victors armed heavily
Guns in their hands
To guard and to punish
When prisoners cant stand.
Eyes stare forward
Blank and disgraced
History is written
In each blank face
Thoughts not of tomorrow
Only yesterday lives
Blood splattered and lonely
Sorrow it gives.
No respite or hope
The miles take their toll
Dusty and painful
Each step is Hell
The wounded are left
To die by the roads
Stinking and rotted
Picked to the bones.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: August 29th, 2026 03:32
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 39
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments6
From the trail of tears to the Bataan death march of WWII this poem applies to all. Well written Norman
thanks my friend, much appreciated
You are most welcome my friend
The cruelty of war in its slightest vetoes the necessities of warring in the first place. Moving read 🙏🏻🕊️
most kind, thanks and appreciation friend
Most welcome my friend 🙏🏻🕊️
This also brings to mind the death marches organized by the nazis .Anyone who fell could not get back up...
true my friend, thanks for read much appreciated
Norman, this is absolutely harrowing. You strip away every illusion of honor and leave us facing the cruelty, degradation, and human cost of war. Powerful work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks and appreciation my friend, my aim was to show exactly what your comments said
A fine write N.
Meanwhile we're prisoners at this bus stop. Feels like it, the time we been waiting! lol.
And now - a poem never to be written? 'The bus arrived'!
arrival ? A mere dream of so many lol
This is the war that we have failed so dramatically to bring to an end. Keep trying, I guess. Well done.
thanks and appreciation for read
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