Did we meet when

Did we meet when

You were living

Passing on the street

As the crowds stood by

Waving flags as epitaphs

For the last of us to die,

Who will be left sitting

On a hillside looking back

Across the great divide

Captured in a moment

Of surrender

The downbeat poet’s last word

On the matter

Of survival

Nothing new is ever known

Before it has been found,

Until then we live in darkness

Waiting for confirmation

As we would the blood of Christ

Should we believe

In counting beads

Perhaps it would be easier

To behold

With one eye on salvation

Nothing comes of nothing,

Counting chickens

Is not a metaphor worthy of the name

Unless you can hatch a plot

To escape the consequence

Of inaction

As the best of us pass by

Drained of purpose

Shorn of life

Was it ever less than this boys

War cries are shouted loudest

By the shamefaced

Trying to make amends

For their survival

Or so you might say

From the vantage of a green hill

Far away.