The Flute

The wail of man-breathed wind floats here
And bodies lay that felt no fear
The harsh, cold music tore away
Their souls departed from today

Then soulless, rising from the ground
To greet the melancholy sound
To do its bidding without fail,
Become a feared and fabled tale

Destruction stains the walkway stones
There's none alive that stayed at home
Dark shadows creep like vultures round
Feasting upon a burial mound

This silence speaks a thousand words
The dead can hear, will hear, have heard
But find a living one and see
Blind lead the blind convincingly

When resting on another's toil
Great power granted tends to spoil
All that fueled the drive for war
Become excuses for much more

And though in life a thing may be
Pleasant, full of purity
Through choices made while still alive
May be unable to survive

- Obscure
© 2021