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Milestones Toward Oblivion
by Michael R. Burch

A milestone here leans heavily
against a gaunt, golemic tree.
These words are chiseled thereupon:
"One mile and then Oblivion."

Swift larks that once swooped down to feed
on groping slugs, such insects breed
within their radiant flesh and bones ...
they did not heed the milestones.

Another marker lies ahead,
the only tombstone to the dead
whose eyeless sockets read thereon:
"Alas, behold Oblivion."

Once here the sun shone fierce and fair;
now night eternal shrouds the air
while winter, never-ending, moans
and drifts among the milestones.

This road is neither long nor wide . . .
men gleam in death on either side.
Not long ago, they pondered on
milestones toward Oblivion.

Keywords/Tags: oblivion, milestones, markers, tombstones, radiation, fallout, nukes, winter, path, destruction, Armageddon, Apocalypse, nuclear, a-bomb, atomic bomb, hydrogen bomb, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Bikini Atoll, Manhattan Project, Trump, planet, earth, war, violence, America, environment, holocaust
Jeff Lewis Sep 2019
Riding the train to Mall of America near Minneapolis. Fort Snelling National Cemetery lies East of the tracks. Outside the windows pass these gravestones. Stark marble markers in the place of heros. Rigid rank and file, monuments on parade in mimic  memory of the command to "Attention!"  

And there are thousands. Row after row, column upon column, they march into the distance

Until finally, I closed my eyes and listened to the rumble of the  train, wheels upon tracks, and to the conversion of a young family seated behind me as they talked about all the fun they will have at the mall. The Mall of America -- found out past the tombstones, beyond the graves of the fallen brave.
The V.A. maintains 138 Cemeteries in 40 states according to www.cem.va.gov. Fort Snelling is not the largest.
dravenstorm Jun 2016
i have tombstones growing in my chest.
AJ Apr 2016
Upon the hilltop
Far over the golden horizon
Where the sun peeks out
From behind the blue crystals
Lining the cloudless sky,
There sit gray
Obelisks, towers of fractured stone
And gleaming silver flowers
That chant the distant melodies
Of those who lay below the grass.

The obelisks line in circles
And weep silently for what age
Has brought upon their faces;
Moss and cracks, dirt upon bouquets,
Names weathered down to pebbles
Vast plains of unturned soil.

At nightfall, winds break
Upon the hilltop's gates
And send forth siren calls
That plead for silent harmonies
Somewhere deep underground,
Below the grasses, below the tombstones
That rise and fall like waves
That sit silent, immobile,
As time strikes its silver chisel
Upon the forgotten markers of those
Who have been locked
Inside its ticking crypt.
Most guys
Want to
Persuade you
To do
What they
Want
Which is
Finish on
Your face
But i
Want to
Finish with
You face
To face
In our
Beautiful tombstones.
Just Melz Jan 2015
Too many times
I've been pushed aside
     On the back burner
My whole **** life
         But I wanna be the fire
   That lights your soul
I want a raging, blazing
         Inferno
      Sparking flames
Making changes
        In the chemistry
   A little oxygen
       So I can breathe
A lot of hydrogen
     So you can believe
We're floating on air
        Particles you can't see
      Like love
It's a mystery
            A theory
   Of who's meant to be
And who's left suffering
         That's destiny
     I'm creating
Breaking
     Changing the flames
   Into ashes
And graves
      With no names
Just broken hearts
          On tombstones
     And no chance
*To restart
Daniel Mashburn Sep 2014
You're writing your sins down as scars on your wrists and you're hiding them all behind bright colored bracelets. And you're praying at night just to help you get sleep but you're so lonely at times that you can't eat.

And it gets lonelier still when all your friends start to change. Move to new places or move on to new things. But these things don't intrigue you. Not like it does them. So you shove it aside, try not to show your frustration.

There is no salvation. No escape from discontent. Only death dates etched into tombstone cement.

But your frustration's swelling to an ear splitting hum. And your heart's pounding rhythms in the beat of a war drum. There's a slash - a quick flick of the wrists. Broken mirrors. And tears. And fingers curled in fists.

You started tearing down the walls in the back of your mind. Just to find some solace or some peace of some kind. I hope that you find it - the reprieve you're looking for. If you feel disillusioned, I hope you won't anymore
Taylor St Onge Jul 2014
I’m choking on a fistfull of bones.                   There’s a skull
hidden deep in the back of my closet,
maybe in the abyss beneath my mattress,
maybe lodged somewhere behind my bookshelf,
that reads aloud all my past regrets
like bedtime stories.

I found the dried up teeth of my grandmother
on my vanity and used them like dice.
There’s a rib from my great aunt that I use
as a clothes hanger dangling on a hook in my bathroom.

When I was little the playset in my backyard
looked like tomorrow,
but weathered down and rusted, it looks
        like a mausoleum.  

There is a lock of hair on my bedside table that
is not mine, but hers, and I can’t help but
wonder if she wants it back.  Does she want it back?

There’s nine-year-old smoke in my lungs and
five-year-old iron around my heart.
There’s a wishbone branded to my liver
to signify the what if? and a
skull branded onto my chest to
signify the what is.

I learned not to trust so fully the first time I
nearly drown and how to be independent the
first time I learned to swim.
I used to want to be a “daddy’s girl” until I
realized what that meant.  The roses he gave me
for graduation went headfirst into the trash.

I have many things left unsaid.
daddy issues poetry.
William A Poppen May 2014
No sickle bar churns
repetitiously clanging two notes
while grasshoppers and field mice
scurry to survive the blade

Now yellow bulldozers with humongous tires
roar like thunder in a rainstorm and
scrape away black loam leaving
clay as red as fresh beets

There is no funeral for the hay meadow
that is dead and put to rest
without a tombstone
I am open to suggestions for a better title.

— The End —