Shadowmen

Shadowmen

In those final quickening hours
we sat, and weighed the snare-drum rhythm
of our failing hearts, sucking warmth from
close-pinched cigarettes and old memories.

Our sergeant paced, checked his watch for lies,
and ignored the muffled sobs disguised as coughs
–  his whistle hanging heavy as a prayer.

Seconds fell like dominoes, and in the dark,
kisses fell on photographs and scented words
of love and hope. A trembling hand, a whistle
burning arid lips. A banshee scream all down
the line. In that void, where time meets fate,
we were no longer men. Just shadows,
dancing on the rim of hell.