Death of a Boy

Guns feel neither pain or shame, nor reason or rhyme. They send messages by air mail with postmarks of death. The boy in the wire was too young to be a soldier. When he was alive, no one announced his coming and no bell tolls his death. No college welcomed him to their rolls He was never in “Who’s Who.” But his life had value and worth. Here, under a dewy curtain, he lies alone, no longer concealed by darkness, for lights reveal that which darkness deceives. The wind blows dust mixing it with the color of crimson and black hair. The last shot's long since departed and silence stand guard on these acres. Death in the wire and a body that drips blood in the night under a brilliant moon that stares down and clouds lie scattered over “No Man’s Land.” —----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Memories of war for me to ponder and wonder if the gangs and thugs in our cities and towns ever recall their victims. Will they think of them years later and consider their worth? Does sleep still come easy? I recall the Bible saying "I'll Turn Them Over to a Reprobate Mind."