The Sadness of It All

The gristmill of war leaves its dead frozen to lay on the blood soaked crusted floor of time lifeless bent shapes, the ones chosen in wars, caused by twisted mind's of mankind only mothers wash blood from time's threshing floor and only hate fed millstones grind children to death left for the shifters who seperate no more the hand of man, the sickle that sweeps away breath the dead are aligned like rows of bundled sheaves beneath etched names in stone fields of green the marrow of life is vanquished, soil recieves monuments of stone vanish, as time intercedes for time swiftly passes, and man will be gone so will the madness of death man tasted when he rose from the muck, in the paradise of dawn with a passion for killing, and the souls he wasted 5/24/18 contest The Gristmill Poetry contest