Marching

Alone, at night, the men walk, the shadow falls,
softly to the floor.
You hear the sound of 1,000 marching men,
that march for a freedom that they
can never attain.
The journey they take, the road they travel,
leads to certain death, yet on they
march, soldiers of a timeless war.
Peace is not known in their restless hearts.
A cold place, a lonely grave.
They still march.
Past your door.
An aching creak arcross your soul.
A bend in time.
A lost world.
Let the music begin.
The deathtoll rise.
And yet again, utter oblivian.