You did not believe in an answer, did not
ask – you made a statement in its place;
no supplication will ever suffice or make
less sense phrased that way. Now we face
echoes in emptiness, dear life ended too
easily – we are suspended between last
memories of a full belly laughing and this
familiar hollowness. Yes, we are aware.
The last day dawned silent, no fanfare of
trumpets, tympanic rattle of drums –
those sounds are our shadows crying.
A parade of sere corpses mangled, a
stark relief, dark-grey angles elongated;
bleak reflections eyes cannot see. No
victors to wear bright colours – no hearts
uplifted. Just slow march of the dead.
© 29 January 2008, I. D. Carswell