Waiting for Defeat’s Glory

Waiting for Defeat’s Glory

By William Burns


Shallow marks of sanity

slowly dissolve into the coarse dirt

and the path is lost, gone,

covered by the rusted hue

of smoldering morality.


Oxygen, clouded with the flavor of slaughter and

gore, poisons war-torn throats as

nauseating tranquility harmonizes

with the jovial banter of young

victors clearing the field of unwanted prisoners.


Bloodshot eyes strain to find

solace in glorious death,

but corpses weigh heavier

on the mind than the body,

and morose mentality must endure.


Intermittent shrieks,

breaking the silence while

aiding to its thick oblivion,

cut short by clogged lungs punctured

with routine efficiency.


The wretched stench

of carcasses rotting in the fields

hasten the pace of ineffable butchery.

Crows screech with envy as

flies claim the decadently prepared feast their own.


Prayers muddled with bloodied sludge

croak forward through broken teeth

and vomit caked lips.

Nearby steel stains crimson,

leaving little opportunity for final words.


Pulsing blood courses

through strained veins, as

the heart pounds rhythmically to

approaching sounds of heavy boots

sloshing steadily through the mire.


Soft rain lightly dowses mossy cobblestone,

and the mill grinds no meal.

Cattle graze over dusty pastures

as time turns history over,

and the gears of the clock slowly rust red.


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