In The Green Zone, or perhaps Iraq,
the warriors have all turned to clay.
Streets are littered with them.
Strewn about here and there,
statues; monuments to war’s bitter days.
The tanks and guns stand still,
quiet, with a pallid angst, at attention,
frozen like disobedient children;
the streets long silent of such mischief.
Green gunk grows underneath their feet
and through the cracking foundation.
Sand pelts all the useless street lamps
and surrenders only to the wind.
The sun leaves boot prints as it searches,
down the alleyways, lighting up the edges;
windows to paint in bright and new beliefs.
Someday the statues will topple over...
freed of their tall shadows.
© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
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