The Killing Field


The children run and play amongst the broken bones.

Roses grow and butterflies fly above our fallen foes.

We cannot escape as much as we turn from the past.
Our feet shuffle and toes squish amongst the fallen ash.

Tears of those dead have watered that line of oaks.
They pull in each drop as the rag soaks.

And with each sun more souls are added still.
Into the killing field until the ground is fully filled.

-OM

44.1

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