The flags flap tattered in the storm
abused by struggles, still they stand
in stark contrast to the stones
arrayed in rows with letters etched
this contrast is circumstance
one or the other becomes the choice
the threads weave for the fates
fragile banners or stern headstones

the former strains in the gale
textile asked to act like steel
resisting more than life permits
when the gods are passionate
flapping, bending, fluttering
to one side and then the next
dissenting currents that would tear
mortal frames limb to limb

the latter stands the test of time
marking contact six feet down
sentinels that will not fail
forever stating occupants
this small comfort chills the soul
when the broken are contained
defying storms in their tombs
enclosed in vaults against the hurt

one or the other becomes the path
as sure as tempests will beset
those who walk the battered ground
seeking their peace from the storm
some will bend while others break
in the breeze the flags will stay
while the rest are put to rest
forever safe beneath the stones.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180326.