Frost of the Harvest

There is a revelry in the dark clouds of war,
upon the soft soil, drenched in blood
the unlucky ones dwell beneath,
as craven raconteurs spin yarns,
and cull the fog o'er the eyes of reason,
blackened boots cover the land,
one by one, cohesive with the drumbeat,
but not to the heartbeat.

Some cry out to gods in the sky,
others bemoan cruel fate,
yet still the graves remain full,
unwilling containers for the greatest mistake,
man against man on a never-ending
battlefield.

Still, each mourning draws hope - like every breath,
as the gentle winds of change allay cannon-smoke,
the stench of death in the fields of gold, now crimson
in the setting sun,
tilled in those fields,
a lesson in the beginning learned at the end,
in every mind, in every grey storm, in every life lost,
hidden in plain sight,
hope found
even in the frost of the harvest.