Poem: Yet the Drums Keep Beating

The gunshots echo off the empty walls

of the abandoned town,

and the team of three scavenges the ruins

for some sort of proof that survivors remain.

There are none, nothing but bloodshed and corpses

littering the pavement; in the distance, a child’s doll

spotted in drying blood.

 

Yet the drums keep beating.

 

The enemy closes in, blaring a sickening horn

to signify their arrival, their weapons fire aimless into

the crowd of innocents as soldiers defend and fall

until their dying breath. Even still, in those last moments,

guns raise and shoot, but the civilians drop lifelessly

around the soldiers, failure lingering on their final thought.

 

Yet the drums keep beating.

 

Politicians gather in a circle from far and wide,

their people drowning in a sea of red

while their leaders bicker and decide if there really is

a problem to be solved. The deaths of thousands

coat the leaders’ hands and won’t wash away,

for they are now Lady Macbeth.

 

Yet the drums keep beating.

 

Closing in, the enemies don’t stop even after

their presence becomes suffocating, but the victims are

united in their shared losses and their grief. They

will fight until their dying breath like those before them,

because if they do not, then what was that death for?

They will continue to move forward: hope for the future

amongst the desolate, lonely, and depressed.

 

Yet the drums keep beating,

and the innocents sing along with its song.

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