The Prize of War
By Alexandra B
Our healing prowess radiates from our metallic surface.
An army general,
A doctor,
A prisoner of war.
We once belonged to
We whisper secrets which our owner once confided...
BLOOD WAS SHED.
AS MEN WERE LYING, LIFELESS ON THE SCARRED SODDEN EARTH,
CAPTURED
To the young we appear inanimate,
just a lustrous prize.
But to the older we protect and inspire
because we are the reverent reminder of a hero who survives.
THE HANDIWORK OF THE ENSLAVED, GONE.
A SOUND. THE WHIP PIERCES THE MEN'S SKELETAL BACKS.
JAGGED COMMANDS PUNCTURE THE HARSH HUMID AIR LIKE BULLETS.
BUT STILL THE SOLDIERS THINK...Perseverantia Omnia Vincit!
