begat of ancient seedlings
and a lesser sun,
ripped from gnarled limbs
by winds of darker autumn,
falling not
to bed aground
and wake a greener spring,
but smart-piercing earth's core
to bitter hollow

it is there,
the voiceless unknowns
stand on crater's edge
buried alive
in rust of Cause,
choking
on a burning sky;

and I,
am deaf-blind in the distance,
for it seems Death does not
leave footprints in sand,
walk on water,
or climb mountains--
it simply falls
where it once stood
wearing yesterday's mask;
I watched then, I watch now,
how small we all are
on a screen
measured in inches

somewhere,
inside that box
is a mother's phantom pain
where once was flesh and blood,
and a father's seeded garden
tilled to grave

and I wonder,
when they see us
how small
do we appear?
.
.
.
.
Art:C.R.W. Nevinson, Imperial War Museum, London

[This message has been edited by Sandpiper (03-12-2003 08:54 PM).]

Read ^ there, because you are reading the wrong part!

~ Trace my body with your words..
And in doing so, you touch my heart. ~