In the Graveyard of Soldiers
On sunny summer mornings
the myriad markers gleam
and shimmer dreamlike
in the distance.
Visions from the stillness rise,
but only of the past,
for in this place,
time has come
to sudden end.
Glimpsed on headstone faces
in plain and shallow font
are etchings of their names.
Forefingers trace the course
of letters and summon memories,
suddenly vivid, of the fallen—
perhaps the only form
of resurrection most alive
will ever know.
A place of buried treasure this—
of ones revered and honored
who would unlock secrets of the mind,
give us cures for all disease that
we might live a thousand years
and summon knowledge beyond imagining.
Yet we have robbed ourselves of such,
for all these gifts lie with them interred;
their honors go unclaimed.
On headstones too are symbols carved,
emblematic of their faiths, for
we would have our deities
compete for attribution
until the soils of all the world
run red in honor of Their names.
Yet in the end our Gods are
much too small, dwarfed by
mankind’s boundless vanity.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2016
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