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Twelve

Twelve men
Sporting frayed, 
Burlap sacks
And white knuckles
Grind their teeth
As they
Hang loosely
From thick
Willow
Trees. 

Their stiff necks crack,
And twist
In the rope's loving embrace
Like the whips
That once ruled them.

Their limp limbs swing
And sway
And stab
At sticky,
Summer air
And sharp blades of grass
Like lonely poppies
Dancing carelessly 
In calm 
Belgian fields.

Their burnt feet arch
Like the scarred backs 
Of their ancestors, 
Angling off toward the wood chips beneath them
As the final seconds of their life
Are forced  from their lungs.

Red  flags
Embraced by Xs of blue and white
Float without worry
Above  a field of white robes and sheets,
A wash in a sea of corn
And vacant night.

Cheers greet the dozens final moments, 
Transcending into a roar of victory
And triumph.

The world is now a better place,
The world is now a better place.

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  1. Date: 10/30/2014 10:17:00 PM

    great poem J.J well depicted. Thanks for sharing

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