Fallen

Fallen.
A poem from a wounded warrior lying prone on a desert’s vast audaciousness,
A crying silence of appeal that itself stretches for the horizons,
Screams without talking,
For all who were here have been cut down, like death was never more contagious than this,
One hand still clutching as if reaching for the sun rising,
His soul will be day walking…
Shimmering against the blades of dry grass threatening the sky to drop its basement,
Changing hues dance to the music of the beating sun,
Her melodies scorching,
The warrior’s place fades as his memories bleed out on the very ground he is facing,
There is nothing left he is blinded in her and his war is done,
He will be remembered as tortured…
Although,
Not by that gawking lizard gaudy in his guise against the desert’s blandness,
A false witness whose truth is as natural as it is sinister,
But what does it know of the wounded,
Or those who fight against others when they could be united in their sadness,
Maybe it is just the finisher,
Who could have assumed it?

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