First published in Musings, Iliad Press, 1995
The deaths meant nothing to them.
They just stood there
As the pale bodies twisted and writhed
In the ditch.
As the narrow bones poked through the skin
And blood trickled from a thousand wounds
Until a river of blood flowed at their feet.
As the depleted bodies mouthed silent screams
From throats that had been broken.
As more fell in
And crushed those below,
Muffling the sound of crunching bone
And bursting flesh
With their own dying bodies.
They stood there
And cursed those who died