Soldiers

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These soldiers are not pacifists-
With jackets on they pass- in fists
Of tiny people.
Some in redness- lacquered and smooth-
The others squint from misplaced splinters.
And in my cold, derisive woods,
They are the cause of many moods.

Bayonets upright- they fight-
With weaponry and infantry.
In battle yet, they fail to see-
There is no reciprocity.
I hear them drumming from afar-
I see them in their wooden groups-
But when I try- my friend to see-
Neatly they disintegrate.
She says they are ‘pretend to me’
She says they are but imagery.

Until I am pale and ghoulish they continue-
My veins extend like autobahns
And lead are the funeral biers.
Being dead brings a sultry quiet.

My face is cold and without red-
And the priest over my coffin stoops.
But I am not the only dead-
For beside me lie my savage troops.