March For Our Father

I can hear the soldiers cadence beating in time with my heart, acclimate to the bombs ringing in my ears this is a call to arms. Martyr's of the highest rank stripes sewn into our skin, hope for living and prey for the dead facing the reapers war-torn grin. Muzzle fire bursting forth from an unrelenting machine, horizontal layers side by side hope lies in a graveyard of broken dreams. High upon the mounds of mass burial no headstones to mark our resting place, another son inevitably falls to a cause in which he did not have faith. Fog rolls in deep from the south sulfur strangling our bloodshot eyes, the drum roll points these marching feet into the maw of an unjust demise. Hanging from the moss laden trees not a strand of hope remains, staining the fields with blood of the innocent eyes of our father have looked away.