How soft the scarlet petals fall
upon the pale and ashen ground
a shock of red against steel gray
a bit of green naivete’
…we watch the tin men falling down.
Crimson stains on barren earth,
shattered limbs and splintered bone…
only trunks where once life stood;
screams inscribed in human blood,
forgotten names now etched in stone.
On fallow ground the seeds are sown,
on vermins’ back discourse is spread,
in ignorance disease is grown…
At what price a name renown
or victory tallied by the dead?
Underneath a pewter sky
still echoing from engine’s drone,
deep sanguine petals gather ‘round
the young man lying on the ground…
he closes eyes and journeys home.
© Ginny Brannan 2014
|Image courtesy Tess Kincaid/Magpie Tales|