the gods cry upon their fallen children,
but those pristine pools of life come a heartbeat
too late.
they cover the crimson painted land with their healing power--
too bad their cooling kisses cant comfort the irrevocably
Chilled.
a valley was desecrated that day.
metallic scents,
abrasive shouts,
and the sounds of a young man's last breath mingle with the fresh fog
that glides down the mountain.
the valley is quiet now.
the very grasses hushed by the fall after fall
of the 'righteous' clashing with the 'righteous.'

'funny how everyone is Right.'

the air is thick.
the dying dreams of mislead men are heavy,
their unheard confessions just as grave.
no one cares about a soldier's sin,

'funny how they're excused that way.'

the truth of the valley has been forgotten:
its story manifested into a porchswing tale.
sad how the 'right' can't remember a time the
masses scorn.

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