Horror of War

A painted sky weeps under a new sun Scattered gray clouds remind life's course has run A field of mud last place my soul shall dwell Its pain is reflected by my eye's swollen well They pour out salted streams to their end As my mind travels to days and years I'll not attend Nothing left to do but let my heart be content I'll wait for last breath without prayer or testament On far ridge bodies quiver some lay still Lives gave for this field without ill will We die in this place so far from home A trumpet will play taps, silence will moan Tomorrow will come, our bones will decay Buried beneath mud and blood we'll stay This place of hallowed ground, once pristine Sad thing is, most of us are only nineteen 10/5/18 contest Fiction-October 2018 writing challenge sponsored by Dear Heart aka Broken Wings