The calvary arrives,
A generation too late.
Finally, men are armed with
Sabers of ink and shields of ambiguity;
The armaments of disarmament.
Equine footprints distort fallen faces,
Reminding the sacrificed past,
Of how apparent it is that their passion
Moving and shaking to the will of the wind.
Crest-fallen captains search the wounded,
With no discovery of survivors.
Only corpses of sons and the coffins of promised futures.
The calvary exits, with hallowed hands held in prayer.