the dead are still dying,
dandering like bonfires
that have emptied their souls
into elemental ash
against a gunmetal sky.
they attempt to crawl back
into their skins, into their faces,
torn apart and split in halves
where bayonets have unwisely struck;
still they sink like mists in the weir,
overlapping each other,
the earth and their tears
rubbed into the groaning darkness,
weighed heavier as fallen stars,
impervious to stranded cries,
dip into stoic reserves, stanch
sacraments to ghosts, exhumed.
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something more somber. as always, comments are convivially
welcomed.
