Battleworn


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Thanks to Daily Mail for the photograph.

Scarlet bones bleached not by winter quickly slowly fade.
Growing colder, quick roll over,
clouds give splintered broken shades.
Dust blows in with whizzing whirring,
burning hot the eye and lung
of soon dead soldiers seconds older
minuets from where they begun
each in passing passes out
a scream-sigh loud for all
“Death be not proud this darkened shroud
you place upon me falls!
I’ll stand again and raise my men
to face you row by row.”
Eternally this battle seethes and rages till its close.

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