Shadow Soldiers On Parade

In endless quest we sought seclusions peace hiding in the mystery of a strength always thought weak and so denied the hero the still of death’s parade waved surrender’s handkerchiefs to fill his empty grave relied upon the charity of victory’s feeble thrill struggling to rise above fresh bloodied horror’s sound. Relentlessly the ears decry the loneliness of empty sound as furtive eyes no future seek in fear of war, in fear of peace, the agony of their disgrace, the joy of living without thrill they know they’re strong, they know they’re weak for somehow evading battles grave to march in fiction’s harsh parade. Solemnly on hush of wind, wars ghosts, in shadow on parade march to history’s retold lies, leave no footprints, make no sound for they will not resign their fate to earthen shell of shallow grave nor will they let it slip behind the fragile wall of unearned peace returning to a world in which we are perceived as weak malign them with contrived disdain, condemn their sacrifice as thrill. Podiums will hail the cause, cheering crowds create a thrill, rolling drums will precede taps, politicians will parade, orators with fiery words that make us neither strong nor weak echoing across dead ears jaundiced by the painful sound of promises that never are the troubadours of peace and fall, as soldiers fall, alone upon a grave. Newsmen mumble, double talk, of situations grave amusement parks entice us with a death defying thrill fire crackers, waving flags, noise to celebrate a peace heads will bow when passing by war’s endless parade the young will even shed a tear at taps lamenting sound grit their teeth and know that honor’s tears don’t make us weak. For freedom is the resting place for the bravest of the weak who stand in freedom’s honor when the threat is grave and rally to defend her, to keep her promise sound not seeking to be heroes, nor the deception of war’s thrill just honoring the memory of those still on parade knowing there’s no solace in seclusions peace. At heart we know that all are weak, that war is not a thrill that those who fill the graves are shadow soldiers on parade that the melancholy trumpet sound is the exhaled breath of peace. John G. Lawless ©6/19/2014