By Tony DeLorger © 2012
The talisman lay trodden,
half-earthed and buried by harsh repetitive footprints,
soldiers mindlessly stomping their way homeward,
weary but resolute steps of disregard.
A hand outstretched, clawed to grasp it,
lay frozen on the dusty battlefield,
what meaning it had long lost in the sleep of death,
where dreams of greatness and belief once lived.
Now this gold pendant of ill forgotten dreams,
forged with human thoughts and significance,
falls back to birth, in an earthy grave,
none so lost and meaningless in its demise.
Death so often surrounds the birth of ideas,
the hardened course of ideals woven in men's minds,
finding opposition at every turn,
belief worth fighting for, death in the name of life.
What good is the talisman,
what good for all it stands in the light of day,
haunted by martyrs, avenged by non-believers,
always the antithesis of some grand doctrine.
Symbols are our fast-tracked understanding,
an idea in a thimble, a resolution without consideration,
ingrained in the mental seizure of power and control,
what we claim as ours in the collective.
And so the talisman falls from grace,
and so do we that imbibe its flesh,
to draw on the denial of reason,
and to go where no fool aught.
In what we invest, shall we reap.
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