Battlefields

Retreat;
Flesh and marrow
Of bone remain but no
Sign of the living; and the dead
Won’t walk tonight, rather
Will sink into
Defeat,

And sod.
Their rusted arms
Will fall as their fingers
Shift in the decomposition.
The enemy standard,
Tattered, resembles
Their own.

Retreat;
The flags flying
Are bleached bone white
By sun and time; there are
No prisoners left to
Be heroes, spared
Defeat,

And the
Earth will reclaim
The youth who fell here as
Fodder for the worms, and the
Grass will grow fertile in
Triumph over
This loss.