pages, stained with time and
an aged aroma.
1915. A battle is painted.
Direct eyes leap from a tiny cliff
onto young bodies. Bloodied. Abandoned.
Somewhere, some mothers stand as sharp
bullets piercing their wombs,
their children’s supple homes.
find a gun
a buddy. A soldier. A boy.
Death has no time in
these fields. He is hurried.
Frontal attacks sweep
unprotected spots. Blurring instinct.
Blinding the Earth with a scarlet bath.
Burying dirt with
1915. Hard back pages, stained with
the scent of suffering.
just the beginning.
*About The Charge by W. Douglas Newton.