Weary of War

Should the stories of Her children live forever?

Their faces masked with stone and soil.

As a result of that inglorious endeavour.

Tales too rich to spoil on only one occasion.

The morals of those stories to be announced by proclamation;

To those whose ear are loyal.

The gruesome, grisly environment be torture to our ears.

Was torture to them whole, but not their greatest fear…

'Twas the thick, green sea of which drowning and guttering came;

Left men blind, burning, guttering and lame.

Till now, men still fight, but none are flung,

And neither do they gargle from their “froth - corrupted lungs.”

Today, men would not allow their brothers’ bodies to be left on the floor.

And neither would they allow them to be sent home covered in gore.

For if their bloody child and the padre knocked at their door,

They would refuse to send them away, then not let them grow hoar.

For what is ever learnt, from men who go to war?

For all it ever does is tear at our bosoms' cores.

Would you make the choice to go and reminisce?

Or forget they ever happened? - The days that were never bliss.

“froth - corrupted lungs” - Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum est