The Last Witness

 
Sapless, brittle leaves scuttle by my feet,
As moth obscured street lamps cast shadows faint.
Winter winds chase disarray down the street,
Across lines of time, and weathered white paint.
Tis here I sit, in the ghost of town square,
Upon wooden bench of love deeply carved.
Initialed by those who once lingered there
To inscribe promises later gone starved.
Better it was here a century ago.
Before men’s titanic arrogances.
This concrete then meadow frosted by snow.
Before blood poured o'er these barbed wire fences.
Rest I now ‘neath the last witness to thee,
Consoled at the base of a mournful tree.