God's Acre

A thinning soldier of yesteryear fights Nature
to maintain his position among the ranks;
But each rain burrows further into the pores of his ancient skin,
and deep beneath, Fatigue has nestled comfortably.

His posture, once at rigid attention, static and stern,
now yields to the most benign midsummer breeze.
Strong lines long gone, the chiseled shoulders of youth
today sag with the weight of centuries upon them.

He is but one in this army of hundreds, each as broken
and gray as his neighbor, yet, the troops persist;
Petrified sentinels reigning above the corpses of comrades
whose bodies withered long ago on Christ's green.
Their task is a grave one.

Aging relics, they stand to preserve the spirits of fallen men, whispering:
Franklin, Taylor, Physick, and Wheeler, statesmen and merchants, alike;
Striving to pronounce the names a few days more,
before the rains forever deafen their cries.
This battle they shall not win.