these are the dead

these are the dead

these are the dead
the dust and ashes
of unknown soldiers beneath distant skies
these the collapsed faces hidden under a shroud of fat rats
entrenched in coffins of sinewed mud

these are the eyes
that stare into eternity
under the beat of
these the insatiable black wings of crows
with sharp yellow beaks

these are the bodies
some twisted into awkward poses of hopeful expectation
that they would return to a better life
these the shadows who stumbled
and in that single misstep found only a bitter death

these are the red-splattered photographs
clutched in crumbling fingers
or caught from the wind by barbed wire
these the fading remembrances of a mother left on the front porch
or an expectant lover's lingering smile

these are the dead
these the heroes
these the ghosts of war
these the warriors marching through the door of selflessness
and into peace at last