Just Another Sonnet Sunday; Forgotten Deaths

Young I was, when the fog hung low like gauze

Quiet abounded over the little vale

A sound atop the hill, we all paused

Sounds of metal thunder, misery’s wail


Up we climbed to see what was missed

We sighted tangled bent steel and wreckage

A steamy sound of an engine hissed

A dashboard clock ticked out time’s passage


Time marches for some, but not for these dead

Three dead men lay strewn quietly graced

From gray cold lips, no moaning words were said

No expressions or fears on their pale faces


Nary a mark, a bruise, or cut was seen

Death was sudden for the forgotten three


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