Field Of Ravens Poem by Kevin Maroney

The soldier on the ramparts viewed the battle grim,
and as he thought upon it all, the light ahead looked dim.
The crows wheeled in the sky, sacking all flesh as game,
He and they so much alike, every moment seemed the same.

He knew each man, left and right, their faces bloody with gore,
Yet each man he'd known the same, e'en before this horror.
The gashes oozed, such blood burned black,
he'd grown accustomed to such strife and wrack.

The ravens called, as friends to tea,
he'd heard it all, devoid of frown or glee.
Each day's the same, just like at home,
whether battling armies or praying in Rome.

The one sole survivor of the carnage in truth,
saw it all, or thought, for sooth.
His life he'd wasted, so fragile, like glass,
He'd run the road for granted, even his lass.

Each foot falls to make a sound, each action has its name,
Nothing's doesn't have spin nor truth, nothing's all the same.