by Perry Thompson

we lay war
dead shoulder to shoulder
in blank friendship,

line graveyards in perfect rows
as if to confound
death with our preciseness.

startled by the carrion's blue
and winking eye
the child wonders
if this is how the hero feels,
sickened at the orange taste of blood,
its warm way of covering
the hands and feet.

and when the hero
in his blonde blood
comes before
the child for execution,
old men draw near
to whisper lies
that fill the ear
and stay the hand.

in perfect rows
the soldiers pass,
parades the child can learn to march in,
machinery precise,
complete with young girls
dressed in black
with dark blank eyes.

Copyright © 2007 - Perry Thompson
Published: 1/4/07   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem