March of the Proletariat

by Ross Randall Johnson

The strings picked up sounds meant for no one’s ears
Four knocks on the door that had gone ignored
Lost in a cloud of hollow ground
The workers drone on past a monastery
Like the boom of canons firing
Each blast signaling an end to the dread
Can you hear their elegy?
Do we offer sanctuary?

A film plays within a subterranean silo
Flickering images of damage and red
The serenade of missiles croon endlessly
They sing in misery and in their memories
Armored soldiers manufactured by dreams
Left to be toys in children’s hands 
What do you see?
Do we try to right the wrongs of history?

March of the Proletariat by Ross Randall Johnson

© Copyright 2016. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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