My dead are not Silent unknown

My dead are not silent. They scream in my dreams. My dead are not still. They reach for their mothers. My dead are young soldiers spent, wasted, discarded. They paid the price for political ploys for strategic follies for tactical errors. The politicians and planners the orderers and senders discomfited but unashamed demand that my dead lie quiet that my grief be smothered that my ache be shunned that my memories be denied. But my dead will not be stilled They will not be shelved numbered catalogued straightened into sanitized rows. Their blood yet drips through my soul their moans still echo through my heart. My dead demand remembrance My dead demand honor My dead demand that lessons be learned. I hear them still through my dreams through my laughter through my prayers. My dead are not silent.