Son of War
The snow fell on bloody ground
turning the white to red, eating the silent
flakes till they disappeared into red dust.
The hand lay still...hopelessly bound
in death. Warm red snow was not meant
to melt and cover white life with lust.
No breath melted the blanket of white
dancing playfully on the mother's son
who lay coldly quiet 'neath nature's cover.
He had wanted to stay...not feel the splice
of war...taking him beyond the red sun
atop the earth where the hawks hover.
Copyright © Patricia Langston-Moran | Year Posted 2008
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