Poetry

That May Be, 11 (132.)

It may have been a
fluke, a gust of wind stirring a baton,
the soldiers soldiered on
and were taken just like pawns.

One by one they fell,
the plodding war a maw to hell,
and through these skirmishes
a kingdom may have crumbled.

Who remains to see,
and speak of tattered capes?
Who scans the ground,
where bloody bodies are an open grave?

There may yet be books
that tell of these trials,
but they will not know the feelings,
the sighs,
the miles
of marching that forced nervous hands.

The peoples’ soul is in the air now, folks,
and the kings and queens
disband.

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