The Last March

He sits on the front porch, And just closes his eyes. As the clouds gather over his head, And lightning flashes across the skies. His mind reverts; Back to all of yesterday's severed ties, He can hear in the distance, The faint murmur of muffled sobs and cries. His lips move not; his speech has since died, His eyes however, remain ever pensive. And even a cursory glance, Could leave you terrified. You can only hope to wonder, What truly goes on inside? You cannot know what to expect, Or the horrors that it hides. How did they come to be? A query he is is faced with every time, What is it that has driven him, All the way to the front line? Without a weapon to wield, Or a shield with which to defend, Just marching to his inevitable funeral, Hoping it will help to make amends. For every teardrop that has fallen, And all the blood that has been shed. His eyes open again, Met this time by thunder, lightning, And they have brought their pluvial companions; rain. They fall gently on his feet, But he does nothing to complain. For they remind him of freedom, Which he desperately craves His yearning is like no other's For his life to him, seems constrained. His eyes close once more, But that face still remains. And he feels like he is trapped, Shackled in her chains. So the thoughts he held, And the vehemence he felt, Have to melt away; like snow. His eyes want to share and speak, But I am afraid they won't open, For the time has come for him to go. Ayush



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