The Battlefield

The clouds are grey under a waning sky
As the form hunches deep to the ground
He whispers his chants, all of them a lie
He is picking through the cloth, like a bloodthirsty hound

The ground shivers with the roar of war
Though it has past, the ground feels it
Their blood soaking and soaking, just more and more
Then a small leap of light, for a match is lit

His face is contorted in a mask of horror and mock
This is his doing all of this rot and war and pain
He rolls the dead and picks on their flesh, hints of no shock
Then the clouds, grey as bark in a forest let their tears fall, of rain

The mud flows freely and fast with the spilled blood of the tortured
The mud mixes with the blood and the bodies of the waning souls
They did not volunteer but were steadfastly, to their deaths, lured
The rain breaks on their broken bodies, like wild waves to a rocky shore

The form slips away into the night as the sun peeks out above the hills
The rays fall on the battlefield showing the destruction and the death
All of their lives gone, their loves, their hates, their dreams and their wills
As the storm goes on far into the next night, of this war, of the
man who picks through the dead, there is, eventually, though the calm
and remaining gloom, nothing left.

The rain washes away their lives and their souls and their blights...
The night covers the horrors of their death and their end
May the dawn and the night converge into one, one endless spill of light
Even of this battlefield, of the broken and the dead, the land of this will mend





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