for the fallen, thank you.
Man is born to suffer the madness of gods;
a crippled death on a bloodied field,
screaming out curses bestrewed with pleas,
defiantly decrying a fate now sealed.
An angry sky contains the miasma,
clouds guard whatever heaven might yield,
soldiers too young to have gathered real sin
now bow and confess to be healed.
But no hand reaches, no angel heralds,
no great light offers repeal,
the empyrean closed, the body is meat,
the spent pawn merely rots on the field.
Body drops on body across the sanguine plain,
still vessels once of life now no more,
the forgotten, the fallen, the dispossessed,
the children of fathers before.
Born into the chains of destiny,
where evil men carry no corpse,
a child who once fed on the breast milk of life,
now chokes on a binge of remorse.
Driven to the field by absent leaders,
in the name of gods who bear no face,
platoons of innocents stripped from their heads,
spend their lives in falls from grace.
Man is born to suffer the madness of gods,
the cruel shadow of time lays its hand,
in too short a moment the soul fades away,
and in a god’s name is now damned.
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