In the palms of their frozen, shaking hands,
a carefully placed rifle aims
at the backs of their throats
swollen shut by moldy bread and custard,
as they muster up the courage to attack
with arms flailing, with guns raised,
entering into the last stage
to make their final keep-
to prove the majesty of heavenly miracles
and
storm
that
beach.
and enter into the tunnel of tomorrow,
through the eyes of their ragged shoes,
the look of warning reflected
in the whites of the eyes of who
are the needles with the threads tightly woven
soaked with dyes an odd shade and hue,
leaking over
in every line,
in every stitch,
in every groove.
in step, in beat- they move-
onward across the snows of the departed,
to finally conquer and defeat
while vengeful units keep
on changing into possibilities
trapped forever in decoration and bloom
ready to bare the fruit,
until infinity, they knew,
they could never shy away
or retreat.
No, there was but one option,
they must
storm
that
beach.
As circulating and rippling demagogues of disfavor,
they are tattooed by the slaves of cheap labor,
creations that only he can remove
with lost arks and ancient relics
harnessing past glories in bold and italics
Courier editions characterizing the weakness of the willing
never left to savor with haste
then prune themselves with
propaganda and cartoons of extreme distaste
assimilated from the center
of the Republic's ripe peach, as
someone screams out to,
"move out and never
trust
that
peace!"
it's the Captain,
he's mumbling something while
bullets become clouds of bees
moving their stingers
along his windpipe
whizzing closely by his skull,
but there was only one thing he
seems to be able to speak,
"we gotta keep on until
it's safe and captured,
we gotta
storm
that
beach!"
And with every reoccurring episode,
their brethren disappeared,
one by one
gun by gun
with the noon coming and going
sun by sun
the cry of the last chicken hawk
run by run
the rushing waves crumbling open,
what's
done is done,
and in his last glimpses
he saw them break through and reach
as they progressed, rushing forward
they had
stormed
that
beach.10/16/2006
Author's Note: This is dedicated to my grandparents- I am lucky to still have them here to be a big part of my life- this is an edit from a previous version-
Posted on 10/16/2006
Copyright © 2024 Curt Allday
