The End of a Ceasefire
written by: David J. Roussel
@hokusgrey
Late season
morning fog
hangs low,
a veil upon the ground,
concealing the fate
and passage of the night.
A breeze stirs
in the orphan leaves of November
and the Earth,
she parts her veil
and lets the long gone starlight
bless her cheeks.
A gibbous moon,
forsaken in the sky,
fades,
where it once shone
in honorary,
lending waning light
to kiss the face
of the morning
after the war.
Every ditch a grave
and every rock
a tombstone.
Every puddle,
blood
and tears,
black with the rain.
As the fog relents,
the ground gives up her dead.
One by one,
the tepid moon anoints them.
The wind gusts up,
one time,
a rush of breath
taken quickly,
stirring up the leaves
in great waves
over the ground
to cover up the bodies
fallen in their place.
The Earth
conceals her sins
like an adulteress.
Low upon the East,
a furnace glow
and soon,
the march will start again.
The secret
of the morning is kept
for the lips
of the dead
are sealed.
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