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The Valley of Echoes

Preface - Before The Singing Song

By ruschPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 2 min read
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On the Trail to the Valley of Echoes

The Valley of Echoes - Preface

Sounding, dark lives lived

Moan into woeful Echoes

Dead’s baggage bouncing.

__________*__________

Before The Singing Song

Before me, for me

In bright Valleys coming soon

Found will be soft peace.

___________*____________

So sing the angels of my nature

Jobs so well done

Tied happy tight to bountiful aprons of Kings

Warriors, Priests, and Bosses all.

While sour laughs sound as Shamans judge gravely

Those fools who followed such false promises

As flags are sheathed and treasures shared

Leaving so many missing

Any thoughts of their past dreams, shelved.

Glory visions remaining rotting

In the many, empty, citizen streets.

No bags of presents, never treasure

Much less smiles and happy eyes lighted

As crying remains still

For those missing, vanished, gone.

Pray seek ye, my brothers and brother’s friends

Look well for our sons away before their time

How fathers too went missing

Thinking we so then… God’s will being done...as fine.

Yet as brazen wild parades ended

And peaceful living again began

So many mother’s still cry all night

Whatever happened to my sons, my man?

Yes, many are the trophies won, stacked rusting

Medals not worn

Laying in empty dresser drawers

Leaving the only ones feeling good…

Are those living

Who shared the rewards presented

As earned.

But look, they too are all old now

Regaling all who will listen

About all the battles won

Not any about the missing.

For they, well, they know why.

For when darkest night descends

And conscience raises its quiet voice for hearing

No outdoor walking do they go.

For they feel well, missing soldiers trudging

Singing dirges as they go by, slow.

Night marchers beating their drums slowly

Moaning dark songs lowly

Needing no surrounding sentries

Singing death stanzas, as they carry them along.

Trudging down into Death’s Valley repeating

Knowing coming chasms wait, hollowed empty

Where no rest sounds for they, the wicked

Marching there, such restless souls.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

rusch

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