Cloud of Dust in the Weeds

You've been stuck in the passenger seat in a car on a long journey, right?

Cloud of Dust in the Weeds

 

Two lane highway, such a dreary one way street,

Nope, not Friday from which the byway can sully out the heat,

Weed lined gully draws out fully in clumps, ranked with your elite.

Standing there among the thorns, crouch behind the towering corn,

Same old shoes upon your feet can’t be drawn away from the wheat.

Seems like nobody even notices or cares if you are there,

Nor takes the time to presume behind the depths within your stare,

So many faces forlorn, your ages rock and storm beyond the pain;

Existing morn, now frayed and torn, beyond the frozen rain.

 

You can’t deny that soldiers die in battlefields every day,

For wars are fought, like it or not, whether dressed in black or grey,

And time defines the ruts and lines drawn out along the way,

While progress deals with spinning wheels that signs the time of day.

Imagined stats ignore the rats of historic battle’s foray,

Still leaving those poor restless souls who died in tides of May,

To reap those strides that war provides, that heavy price to pay,

And as the years, forfeit of fears, tread on beyond the time,

Warriors still hide where they once died, where now the freeways line.

 

So gory a story bequeathed this pouring sad, defeated tail,

Pave glory beneath expanding sheets of concrete asphalt shale,

For guys that hide on wooded slopes for battle wounds release,

Your silent watch, sworn violent notch, for any sign of peace,

While left behind, your forgotten time long lost in modern code,

Your bones are trapped, capped over and mapped below the endless road,

And there you wait, entombed by hate, eternal front line load,

Still no one sees the hellish freeze that remains in a forgotten sky,

Battlefield healed, eternally sealed, watch worlds go blindly by.

SR Urie