All the Ghosts

All The Ghosts Families hushing Around crackling transistors, Like the sound of rushing And muffled whispers, And all the ghosts enter Through a heart-shaped door Where a nervous presenter Is announcing war. Post cards and kit bags Are strewn in the hall, Their tears and nametags Says it all, And waving goodbye To their husbands and sons Are the wives who will cry For the enemy guns. Marching tin soldier, Like a puppet, a toy, Not much older Than someone's little boy, All the ghosts mothers And all the ghosts wives Dream under covers Far from their lives. A brave volunteer, An unwilling conscript Toast the same fear In fields of conflict, "To the bittersweet irony Of life and death" They breathe, admiringly, The enemies breath. When words left unspoken, To our heroes, are said, Some return broken And some return dead, Where a million hearts grieve As they are laid to rest And all the ghosts leave Through holes in their chest. © RJVHorton2015