Battle of the Bulge

There is no moonlight gracing
this battlefield, now a graveyard;
the milk of spilled body parts
pools at the bottom of untouched trenches.
We build them to avoid the war outside.

Soldiers raced across these regions
earlier today, past fallen men
and wire deathtraps. Not quite men,
no - sparsely designed insects.

Even the sun is dulled.
Its slanting desperation fails to touch
the end of the world, the edge of
a golden death familiar only to these men.
They dream of the afterlife at night
while guns scorn sleep and keep watch -
their unfeeling triggers are warmer
than their last meal.

When the men rest the real insects
emerge to probe the stillness,
substantial enough to make imprints
in mud, yet insignificant enough for
God to neglect their presence,
and the insects creep along like
nightmares upon cold skin.

Dawn illuminates only the bleak earth.
The next morning the men wake
to find companionship with metal
radioheads, humanity personified by
disembodied voices unknown miles away,
close enough to see but
too far to be of any assurance.

These men who defend their
country's honor do so without realizing
that day is a time of death for
all species, even insects.