War

Here is a Quick Poem / Thing I have done off the top of my head

The Howling screams of Pure despair,
The falling drones of Hope and Passion;
The War I fight has just begun.
I fight for Hope, Passion and Love
But words fail me at the time.
My soul falls like a wingless Angel
and I want to confess to you;
My Admiration and Love for you.
But thought Plagues my mind,
like a Plague of Locust.
Please hear my Last Confession; 
The Ramblings of a Lost Soul
and understand why I fight;
Raging this War Alone.

By Lewis Stockton

Reviews

[Herschel]

The poem starts off with many a “the” in the first lines. I always feel that repetition should serve some purpose, and with such a banal start it’s hard to feel great interest. Frankly the first two lines would work just as well without them.
I feel the second line gives a somewhat confused image, with hope and passion’s fading being displayed as a drone, attaching negative connotations with the hope and passion itself. Most likely you were trying to present the fading bleats of hope and passion before they fade into nothingness, but it does not shine through in the reading.
I don’t really see how words failing you in a battle impair your ability in war, unless you’re a particularly shouty drill sergeant or somesuch.
A wingless angel seems somewhat trite an image to me, what with angels being cast out of heaven being a trope older than the fall of the Roman empire.
I like how you emphasize the “you” ness of the man you want to confess your admiration and love by repeating it at the end of both lines.
Although, I find it difficult to see how a single thought can plurally plague a mind, and likewise how big a locust you must have for it to constitute a plague on its own.
But like our poet, I must end my ramblings; I’m not sure quite why he fights this war alone. Something about unrequited love? That’s the reason I usually find in poetry like this, and looking back it seems to fit. Your capitalisations are somewhat inconsistent. Does this signify a freedom of spirit? A disregard for the conventions of even the most basic poetry? Or simply a disinclination to use the shift key? Only the poet knows the answer to such a far reaching question.

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This is a really wonderful, lovely write. Enjoyable read.