We gathered up the corpses and in boxcars transported them,
home,
to their place of calling and
we called on the powers that be to leave well enough alone.
They paid no heed,
to feed the war machine a dream has to be broken and
words spoken are never as powerful as lead or explosives fed into tubes,
lubricated by the spittle of the dying.
I'm trying to understand why some would bomb the **** out of any land but the answer will not come.
too much sun?water on the brain?whatever the reason it's destructively insane.
We washed the dead in formaldehyde and it made us die a little inside.
Home,
to the place of calling.
Tall men and tales of dead men,
I see them when the light goes down
I see them on the edge of town,
they wave me home.