the time was so tangible.

I took a walk to see the sky,
before the leaves all fell.
Fires reached to scorch the sun,
martyrs, brave and true.
Every one was beautiful–
but all were meant to die.

Golden light and illuminated angels
can’t hide the marks man’s hands left behind.
And man’s hands will always show the fate God bestowed.
Fear in every line,
each note sings desperation.

I took a walk on bloodied paths,
leaves rustled underfoot.
Ashes left behind,
but now blowing on the wind.
Tablets eroded,
history unwritten…
ultimately forgotten. 

I rarely, if ever, post poetry, but that’s been rattling around in my head for too long.  Maybe now I can stop thinking the phrase "martyrs, brave and true."