emmaleems:

Here stands the sea that once lapped at the ankles of soldier-boys.

The moon holds confession and the boys do pray to those they once called God, spitting their languages by starlight into the salted spray. Here, there is no day. Here, there is no sin. Only gunfire like sweets, like the childhood finality of altar-boy bells, whereafter blood will meet the sea and call it Christ.

No, that moon did not give them hope, the tides did that for them; receding and revealing the peeling blockades, disaster overcome, a gift held close by those who will not make it to the dawn. 

Call it transubstantiation but live not to see the bodies that will become this manless game. You cannot remember everyone yourself, boy. You would let them die unknown.  

Here stands the breaking sea. It rests at ease before the monsters that call each other men.

Normandy, Noon || Emma-Lee M.