We saved Satan’s jewelry in the ossuary
Skulls adorning the walls
Bones piled together without a cross or star
Their shadows braided by death
No longer living in mud stained fear
The end when a poets life begins,
where a hand reaching for God
is consumed by rhymes lost in time
is only remembered by those who march willingly;
to be scorned by those who would try again
to control the destiny of those who love their children
There is no applause in the gathering place
No conversation or last rites
Their once covered their faces of shock and
their glazed eyes that once pierced every conscience
stripped by time to feed the living
No one knows their names
or who ordered them to their death
But he shot those who would run
They lay in wait for someone to say,
“That is my friend”
But nobody came
Only their mothers know they never came home
And they wait hoping someone wiped their brow