bugle call

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
wartime poem. school project

Submitted: August 18, 2008

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Submitted: August 18, 2008

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Show me what it's like
To dream in black and white
the beautiful youth is dead tonight
at the height of the bugle call

Show me a sweeter message than
the one from southern colors lend,
and weep the bullets that they mend
to take the light and life of all.

The old gray man from the tongue of truth
spoke his heart from a red phone booth
and guaranteed his summer from youth
would be his sole downfall.

 On a heap of scarlet withered sand
his rough face held the army brand
and with a crumpled photo in hand
squirmed the mud, red and tall.

With a stained woman's aged face,
cold as satin, rough as lace
he flashed his lantern, just in case
his heart has withered small.

 "Tell her-" slipping words and cries"
Something sweet to soften her eyes,
and someone flying through the skies
should mend her broken fall."

 The crippled skeleton learned to write,
"Dear Katie," at first, "I see the light
the whitest soul of my weary flight
should cease this eternal maul."

From the death of lost black hours,
lovingly lay the blood with flowers,
the mourner's weep and turn coldly sour,
as they stare at the shooting wall.

As he danced with death in the mud and wept
and prayed his home to see and accept
in his grasp he tightly kept
his love, his life, his bugle call.

 Front of the line, but still behind
he crawls to reach, search, find
his immortal spirit, undefined
the steel-blue eyes, laced with rind
kissing a pictured face, forced by mankind.


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