Ghost Children

There was a playground next to the cemetery.

He packed his gun, kissed his mother,

and waved as the bus drove away

carrying his life, his number, and others

unknowingly within final days.

Danny boy had been lost to warfare,

now fifty years have passed.

A slide and swings and benches sit

next to his stone and grass.

Behind the lot of a neighborhood church

a young boy came to play.

Daily he visited the granite stones

and read the names through years'  decay. 

He knew they each had stories

of how they lived, loved, and died.

He'd sit and envision the perished

until his mother called him inside.

For years he'd hasten through school

and spend afternoons passed in the field

with Danny and a hundred more souls

among whom the boy would kneel.

Now these figures had left the necropolis

and were present in the church of stained-glass.

They accompanied him at home, to bed; 

one day Danny came with him to class.

His teacher called home, his parents called God,

he felt victim to assault and attack.

There was no help at school and no help at home

so, except with Danny, he drew back.

He said they were gone, they said he went insane, 

Now all he wanted was to be with his friends.

They laid him next to a young soldier named Danny

and blessed his body, for his mind was condemned. 

Reviews

[Haley Wilson]

My favorite type of poem! Wretched with a perfect twist at the end. Putting this in my library.

[Saddam]

Dark but sensual write. Like it. Thanks for sharing this beautiful poem.

[Don't just B, but B ama..]

Whoa, DEEP, a very unusual twist, very well written, almost felt as if I were loosing my mind. Touching, great piece, keep writing!