We all lie still
In the poetry of war
We all lay slumped or draped
And do not move anymore
Strike a pose macabre
A pose more resolute
Than lines drawn is shifting sands
The fields our lives pollute
The eyes that cloud
In an opaque glassy stare
Do not see the dogs that feed
Upon our carcass' bare
Of life. That spark is gone
Robbed by the poetry of war
Humbled, frail, broken, torn
We do not move anymore

E.L. Ashley
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