Answer to the man ahead,
Up on the road,
Of traveling dead.
Comatose and coldest skin,
Their funerals, too much sin.
The death come over,
The crescent hill.
Alone forever,
In the dusted field.
Bled for all,
Kill at will.
Sad songs fill the air,
Answers to dismay.
Pain from a leg,
That was torn away.
Bullets fly,
Srceams are heard.
Bombs fly overhead,
Then not a word.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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