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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Psychology · #1746349
Written on a very quiet evening.
There is no blood

Only stones
and dust

On the battlefield where she lay

Naked

Rain running off her body

As if she were tin

Or alabaster
And her hands lay in such a way

Not at all magnificent.
And every one of her soldiers

Lay in rows

They did not raise a hand

Though they were beautiful
And strong
She let them die

With that simple
stare.



He had no eyes

And wore heavy clothes

Hiding that his body was rotting.

She had lived with him before

And he had kept her silent

When she heard herself
wailing

Between her ears.



No birds

Nothing growing

One broken tree

And her dead army

Beyond her pale arms.



And he does not move.



She waits

For his sword

She waits

For his gun.



And she is wild from waiting

As the wailing grows

The rain rolling all the while
With him just standing there

Watching her
And listening.



Somewhere close

A woman in black folds

Her daughter

In a little white blanket.

And holds her in the chair 

That her husband carved

With his slow and gentle hands

The rain is here too

And doesn’t stop for her

As she holds the baby to her breast

And weeps.




No battle

No blood.

Only the insistence of rain.

The silent woman 

In her battlefield

With her torn back.

The man comes

And wraps her in blankets


He holds her to his chest

Without a word


She listens to his heartbeat

She listens to the wailing

So she knows they are one.



And her heart is broken.



© Copyright 2011 S.T. Owen (stowen at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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