My Dead Are Not Silent

My Dead Are Not Silent

My dead are not silent.
They scream in my dreams.

My dead are not still.
They reach for their mothers.

My dead are young soldiers
spent, wasted, discarded.

They paid the price
for political ploys
for strategic follies
for tactical errors.

The politicians and planners
the orderers and senders
discomfited but unshamed
demand that my dead lie quiet
that my grief be smothered
that my ache be shunned
that my memories be denied.

But my dead will not be stilled
They will not be shelved
numbered
catalogued
straightened
into sanitized rows.
Their blood yet drips through my soul
Their moans still echo through my heart.

My dead demand remembrance
My dead demand honor
My dead demand that lessons be learned.
I hear them still
through my dreams
through my laughter
through my prayers

My dead are not silent.

Anonymous