Fools March In

When the horn blows,
and sounds the battle cry,
in weak, unsturdy tones,
what man, what desperate man,
prepares for the fight?
With nothing left,
but their spirits,
sinking fast into dark.
What lonely souls,
are so alone?
When night all around closes,
what fools stand tall?
Clad in flesh and bone,
protecting their gloomy minds,
and gleaming hearts.
No armor?
Why is silence the flavor,
of their last meal? last day?
Why do the cries of helplessness,
not ring in the air?
What of pride?
What of honor?
Is there none?
When the enemy,
fast approaches,
in numbers uncounted,
and all lonely men,
with death wishes stand,
or seem so,
to fight when they cannot win.
Why does fear,
not sparkle within their eyes?
They know all too well,
that this is the end,
and yet they stand,
empty, but without fear.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of death.
Fear of living.
And the last blow,
to the horn calls to battle,
what fools fear not?
A dark cloud looms,
and they are aware,
"It looks like rain." says one.