Bitterly splendid

It came upon a midnight clear

the stars shone bright down into

a crisp clear winter’s night

from within my window’s safe light

viewed without the cold and fright

and

whilst I pondered weak and weary

over spilt milk

loathing my shattered dreams

I cleared it all from my table with a single sweep of my hand

my pens and paper all in chaos, all in flutter

with self-indulgence and self-pity

the tools of my trade settle to the floor

unwritten unrested

upon a midnight dreary

 

Somber as opiate

Silent as the breath of the dead

quiet minds are diseased and dismembered

stilled words placed in its stead

 

‘Charge on boys, we will make it yet!’

And the Scots Grays wheeled about,

the cannon that rended them asunder

threw them to the ground

Still the Light Brigade went on.

‘Charge on boys, we will make it yet!’

The lads firm in their seat

The lads firm in their resolve

Cannonade exploded all around

horse and man

heavy smoke settled upon the field

 

A great poet never writes about after the battle

when the smoke and bullets have cleared

all that hangs heavy upon the battleground

are fogs of flies and the smell of acrid sulfur

when the sun gleans bright and true off of the wire

and a butterfly gingerly spreads its dewy wings

brown and yellow and spotted and fragile and beautiful

next to that chap that is caught in the wire

a barb invested in his cheek, a barb invested in his mouth

his helmet askew but still on his head

his eyes still open but dried and glazed and dead

A great poet only writes of the battle during battle

-Gas!  GAS!  Quick boys! An ecstasy of fumbling-

 

My hand shakily stumbles

I attempt to write

written but still unrested

early morning light

lays across my carpet

the horizon is wonderful

bright pink and gold

the suns benevolent rays

replace the night which I so long

have endured

arm cramped and hurting

fire in my eyes a bloodshot mess

hair tussled and greasy

but my mind beneath now a blaze of glory

 

We are all beggars, the veterans of war

bent while walking like some hunchbacked letch

drowning in a sea of pity

puking in some lonesome city gutter

whilst those in peace, education achieved

strive to prove we were murderers

a murder of carrion crows

feeding upon ideas and men not still alive

but luckier �"luckier still are they

the dead

 

scars and sores are not worn like badges of victory

only reminders of defeat

burning pain still burning hot

like the memories of the others

I will always respect the man

who wrote and implored children to not believe

the old lie,

‘Dulce et decorum est, pro Patria mori’

but in my lifetime I shall not agree

for he is gone, a soft spot for some bullet’s home

and I lived, in a manner speaking

whilst those who were better

than I

 

died

 

--william paris