No Comfort Cradle to the Grave

 

No Comfort Cradle to the Grave

Death has risen from a new hole in the ground, over again,

It does not discriminate, any age, or race, its quarry claimed.

The immortal child, lost in the eternal waste, sad victim of war,

Wrenched away, without any idea, what all the fighting was for.

Planted in the ground, like an infertile seed, sown out of sight,

Poor soul, its spirit released, left to drift, into the eternal night.

In forever, time without end, its awful plight, we dare not know,

This fruitless seed, beloved dead infant, alas, it shall never grow.

Perhaps, it has joined the lost legion, of other souls, in the drift,

Where the tide of misfortune, holds other restless souls, in the rift.

We really do not know, for there and back, a path never walked,

Ours to speculate, the mysterious unseen world, seldom talked.

Some would say, now in God’s hands, such a comforting theory,

Where angels softly sing, in perfect harmony, and never weary.

While others believe, it may have taken another form, on earth,

Starting over, within another creature, wistful notion of rebirth.

Or does it rise each night, searching for a host, beware the dark,

Where phantoms, wraiths, and ghosts, doth haunt the celestial arc.

Maybe it remains, within the lonely grave, waiting to reconnect,

Amidst the weeds, and wildflowers, sadly passing time, in neglect.

For the day, when it will hear, its name called, soft words spoken,

As the mother in black, silently weeps, with sad memories awoken.

No comfort the grave, such a desolate place, of sadness and dearth,

The cold damp cradle, set in wretched rows, within mother earth.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2024)