This summer cemetery queue
to visit those beneath
waits patiently alert in line
for its advance to stain
the dark incline.
Over the top the field of view
discloses restored heath
where gravestones martially arrayed
in rank and file remain
dressed on parade.
This sunny graveyard grinning through
neat rows of dragon teeth
disguises errors of command,
decisions which the slain
can't countermand.
Did architects of memory rue
the sword outside the sheath
and reimburse the withered lives
to prove they weren't in vain
with fame that thrives?
Did soothing peacefulness ensue?
But what could compensate for death?
Despite the calm, death is not peace
though horror, fear and pain
must surely cease.
Why do we all prefer, in lieu
of thorny crown and wreath,
polished lawn and manicured stone
to glory rotted brain
and splintered bone ?
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