POEM: REDUX

Victory, but—
Hollow.
This isn’t how
The battles were back home
We’d kick and
We’d hit and
We’d scream and
We’d fight—
But we’d always be friends
By the end of the night.

Victory, but—
Hollow.
I let myself believe
They didn’t have a soul
So I hurt
So I maimed
So I caused them pain
I was deaf as stone
As they cried to go home
And I kicked
And I hit
And I screamed
And I fought—
Even though I won
It was all for naught.

Victory, but—Hollow.

Kings

The field, aflame with blazing uniforms, but the orange: flaming, it was supposed to be, but it was dusty, hopeless, broken, defeated— the things an army shouldn’t show.
“Is this how the life of a great hero, a great soldier ends?’ mocked the king, “Faceless, nameless, alone in the dirt?’
“That,” the general replied, “Is how we end, all of us, wether king, peasant, soldier, thief, hero, villain— alone and faceless, a memory to those who knew them, and only those, to the rest? Nothing.”
“But I?” gasped the monarch, “I, the king?”
“A memory still,” the general pressed, “dead for a king is dead to a peasant also.”
Oh, a king? A king, though in life a ruler, a king is equal to the lowliest of thieves in death. A theif, who became a soldier, who died by another man, to rise, then fall, only to be mocked by a king, a king no more then his equal in death.
For in death, all are faceless.
All are peasants.
In death, all are king.

So…I think I might go into poetry, or writing, or…word-ing? Did you guys like it?

Yet Another Poem

Repeat, they say, repeat,

and you do, oh yes, you do.

A hero, they say, a hero,

and you cheer, oh yes, you do.

A menace, they say, a menace,

and you yell, oh yes, you do.

My family, you say, my family,

and nobody cares but you.

Another Poem

The leaves fall, fall from empty trees,

family trees, happy trees,

the consequences of war,

but, alas, do you

do you shed a tear for a falling leaf?

No, no, no tears for a leaf,

only the trees weep for the leaf, the leaves, the trees,

weep for them all, but no,

you do not remember the leaf,

you do not cry for a leaf.

A Poem

Nothing,

the color of blank,

or the concept; the concept of blank,

of nothing?

not nothing, but blank?

blank, the color,

not a color,

a feeling, nothing

is blank;

the color of war

of death

of fear

is

blank