It Was No Procession
It was no procession,
there was no need for a confession,
his eyes had a black glaze,
as he stood over looking a cemetery
and noticed it was full of fresh graves,
some just mounds of earth
being drizzled on by light showers,
and the ghosts there,
they were holding flowers,
standing still, very still,
while the spirits took off up the hill,
he was so busy,
he simply couldn’t catch his breath,
as he held his black horse by the bridle,
he was known as the angel of death,
and that was just more than a title,
when war breaks out,
he could hear the wounded men shout,
life couldn't hide,
his horse was pawing and stomping,
and shying to one side,
as if to avoid the holy ghost,
the angel of death knew,
that during wars young men die most,
and there was nothing the holy ghost could do.
© 2012 Frank Atanacio
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