01110: Faded Glory

Colors run,
streams of blues and reds
pool below.
Fallen stars collect in a pile.
Those that stay
are ashen gray,
a dead soldier's pallor.
The tattered rags
hang limp and dull,
unstirred by the wind.
Winds of voices,
tongues are silent
tied by censorship.
The few that see
are few indeed,
and 'though they scream
it's still the same
as old glory weeps
in silence...

-omnicolor
Not Copyright 1997
Pit Labs, Digital Darkness