Immovable in line, marching to Rome.
They stand proud. Like punctuation;
Full stops, exclamations,
Whichever sets best the tone

Of young life felled, weeping and bloody,
Buried under crosses. Will those
Butterfly wings, that solemn
Bark soon mark new endings?

Those weathered maudlin sentinels
Cry in hushed tones, soon to feel the
Cold metallic bite, the
Insidious poison

Of approaching death. Extinguished,
Although in late of life not Spring,
Before time had chosen.
Will life ever desire

Life, not bludgeon effacingly?
Or, in those indifferent is
Death deserving? Perhaps
There is no more fitting

Commemoration of wasteful,
Needless loss than to reciprocate
In determined fury
A cold mechanical glory.