The Camps of Turpentine

Under the bright red disk of the sun
They toil with muddy feet and jaded eyes
Hoping for relief that never comes
Hewing the wood for turpentine

On horseback men with rifles watch
This sick and desperate legion
Their faces do not sell their thoughts
They hunt for trace of weakness

At dark these tired ghost-like wretches
Return to fetid bunks
Their sleep is dreamless and unpleasant
They know what soon will come

No state of debased savagery
Has equaled this existence
none try to flee their agony
They are too spent and listless

Scores have died to this frontier
Their corpses lay uncovered
For there's a common adage here
If one dies get another

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem