collect their souls


they lay softly and sweetly

in the swamp and on the hill

covered in time and light layers of soil

and rotting leaves: the stuff of holy compost.


forgotten, lost, bodies uncollected,

sacrifices unsung, they lay

by the hundreds or thousands,

the residue of battles

and causes and ideas lost just as they,

like clouds scattered in wind.


their nerves and bones and flesh

have grown green in lumps

of moss or grass in rain and snow.





Copyright James Phoenix 2017

updated 5/7/2017