No more orders, no more directives.
They’ve fallen from rotation.
No records have them, no inspections.
Years have crumpled to ash.
Every night, the troops thoughts, eyes
wander to the plain where under night-tide
where lines of red and yellow, blue and green
wisp in the gloaming.
All they’ve ever done is watch.
On one night one leaves the fort,
and as he disappears the others watch.
A chance for the sublime.
Day 9 of NaPoWriMo. Shanked it. But I like it enough to keep working at it.