We peered through child-eyes,
giving names to pin pricks,
as our necks nestled the grass,
and light danced above the leaves.

We bore our lives,
and fell through stars,
Achieving a loss for words,
that described our vacant stares.

We lose our time to age,
unjustly tasked to reflect,
and carve memories,
of health and innocence.

We recall our virtues,
exhaling soundly into dust,
humbling ourselves for the moment,
hugging the earth, as our mother.

We, torn from our horses,
expendable to weapons,
buried beneath the wheels of our chariots,
cradled by grass that knew our lives.

We, the bearers of conclusion,
surrendering to wounds,
as we regard the measure,
How precious is life.

01/22/2009

Author's Note: This is dedicated to those remembered and forgotten. For those who dreamed soundly as children and left like a bad dream; and to those who lived with a purpose, leaving this world with a violent spark.

Posted on 01/23/2009
Copyright © 2024 Wayne Tate