The Ground is Soft Here

The ground is soft here,

You cannot see the earth, for it is littered with men.

Like the fallen buckled branches of a forgotten fir tree,

Twisted against the dying sun, casting awkward shadows

Onto the scarlet soil.

Bloodied. Battered.

Broken.

Bodies,

Ensnared in wire, strangling the last splutters of life

In a fountain of red toward the stars, offering a sacrifice to the heavens

In exchange for a quick death.

An offering,

Ignored.

The ground is soft here,

Craters scatter into the horizon.

Graves

Filled with lost heroes, spilling over into the mud.

Men twist together, locked forever in their final battles,

Dashed to pieces by the metals of man.

Decay is quick.

Bravery is turned to dust effortlessly,

Lost forever.

As though it never were.

A red river, thick and dirtied, carries life from the fallen.

Into the chasms of the earth.

Providing nourishment
To hell.

The ground is soft here.

And the night is long.

A thunderous applause shatters the unnatural calm

Beyond the darkness

From afar.

But there is no rain.

The foundations of the earth are shaking.

Distant cries of terror are silenced.

As more graves are dug, effortlessly.

A desperate soul cries out,

Dear God

Help us, but come yourself, do not send your son

For this is no place

For children.

The ground is soft here...

Dawn.

The sun bleeds across the sleeping earth.

Warming her face and awakening her.

Rolling plains, as far as the eye can see.

Show no scars.

The bodies of the fallen long since lost;

Eradicated, by the churnings of time.

The ground is still red.

Bloodied.  Painted

An everlasting shrine to the perished

In the face of the scarlet flower.

Flourishing on the fallen

For eternity.

The ground is soft here,
And you cannot see the earth.

Copyright © 2011 by Simon Austin