Colin F. Jones


unanimated waste of form and shape,
of structures built for grace,
make grotesque the beauteous scape,
of this battle shattered place
the only life are clouds of flies,
a shaggy dog or two,
that lick the ugly staring eyes,
in faces bloated blue.
unseen in air retreating souls,
rise with the cordite smoke,
that spirals from a dozen holes,
mid deaths decrepit cloak.
there once was harry, there was john,
and bill lies over there,
just carcasses of everyone,
beyond our lord’s repair.
the truth is stark the vileness clear,
for all who wish to see,
our friends who once we all held dear,
decaying morbidly.
who really cares? the king?, his son?,
the president of the state?
for now the battle has been won,
for them it’s all too late.
oh yes we will remember them,
but that won’t bring them back,
to be again those strident men,
who marched along the track.
but they will live until we die,
their blood flows through our veins,
and we’ll grow old asking why,
their names were not our names.