House of the Dead
The rising sun
The grieving men
The house is silent.
The dead lie within.
Hidden from the dawn,
hidden by a trembling hand.
A wet finger,
teeth clamped into the bottom lip,
a tear staining the thumb,
and two fingers trailing the palm,
reaching its bony wrist
searching for its pulse
As a pathetic sob pierces through the terror.
A crack
like a whip.
And the bodies fall.
The smoke billows, muddies the night.
The sweaty men huddle.
They cry as they turn from their sleeping brothers.
All that’s left
is smoke
powder
blood
and strangled weeping as the horrendous whip
cracks again.
The rising sun
The grieving men
The house is silent.
The dead lie within.
Embroidered by the sun
Touched by a trembling hand
Feverish chills down the spine, red swollen eyes.
The tears have dried, but more will come.
Arms crossed against the icy morning breeze,
watching the spirits ascend from the house
hovering to His Right Hand.
Gone, already missed and adorned
and the mourners step into the light
weary, leaving behind their lost brethren.
Hands clasping their wrists, arms,
each other’s shoulders, tight embraces.
Searching for a pulse,
a medic, a stretcher, God Almighty
Forgive us, please.
How could we have known what he would do?
The rising sun
The grieving men
The house is silent
The dead lie within.
