Hold the Line

The guns are still, and the dead remain. The buzzards swarm where the children play searching for souvenirs. No time to mourn when the new day comes. Like the essence of coffee in my cup, I’m still warm, but hollow. Hold the line on the high road. Hold with a patience for polish and protest. Hold the line with full devotion. In the ashes, the heart’s a precious stone. Politicians pray, but they will not listen. On their collars, are pins and ribbons, paper proof of our tears. Our calls for help, and our cries of pain. We raise our arms, but for a warm embrace. Now my friend, the enemy. Hold the line on the high road. Hold with a patience for polish and protest. Hold the line with full devotion. In the ashes, the heart’s a precious stone. We swing and step in good company, but the road is long, longer than it seems. I’ll live these days the rest of my years. I may tire, but I won’t disappear. I’m a stone that paves the way. Hold the line on the high road. Hold with a patience for polish and protest. Hold the line with full devotion. In the ashes, the heart’s a precious stone.