It’s a poets mission – War, and attrition
Despite what he might this fight is of
His own volition,
His own decision,
The doom come true and into it’s own fruition
Through the actions of fractured factions and foul precision,
Fractions of our fathers, of our mothers – fighting fights that are
Far from sight,
Out of mind,
Have had their day and rest in restless nights
To only spend their hours in nightmarish revision
Of past collisions-
Of Unkind times,
And demolitions of their former forms
Living in dormitories come barracks victim of their own reform
Drawn from war to peace and back to war-
Torn from where once they might have told stories of
Cruel times conquered
And former glories
Owing the former to another because that’s more easy
Than retelling how you stood in line and felt ‘uneasy’
How you wouldn’t mind felling orders that made you feel unworthy
Queasy at the thought that they made you feel ‘less’
So instead you fell in battle brand new with a rusted bayonet
Because days like those were days that you’d rather forget

© Thomas Grice, 01/06/2017


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