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
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