Filth-encrusted winds bear aloft a roar of woe
At the loss of those who've now since gone where all must go
And as I tread and toil among this field of blood and dirt and dung
I can do naught but regret that alas!
Their praise must go unsung

Fires crackle and spit smoke at tattered flags still standing
Whilst I am judged a repugnant joke by countless kith and kin
Held in contempt by eyes now dead as on their faces 'tis plainly read:
"Begone from here, you sponge-spined wimp!
You're even unfit to join the dead!"

It's no secret my people never fought for what we all knew to be right
But even that must never excuse my pathetic, child-like fright
For when all's finally said and done under icy moon and blazing sun
Who ever heard of a demon that was too scared to fight?

---

This poem was kind of amorphous for a long time. It was actually initially inspired by one of the last scenes in Lincoln, if you can believe that. It was initially a reflection on the figurative silence that seems to linger on battlefields once the fighting has stopped, but as I wrote it I came to feel like it could stand to be more personal, more about the narrator and less about his situation. So after the first two verses I stopped and reconsidered where I wanted things to go, and I came up with this new angle. Those first two verses actually remained unchanged from their originals; all I did was write the third one to wrap things up.

If you read my stuff, you know that my poetry usually isn't very lyrical. Or even really bothers with a rhyme-scheme for that matter. This was an active effort to try and remedy that, though I'll leave it to you to decide whether I succeeded.

I am proud of "sponge-spined wimp" though. I'm always fond of lines like that.

This poem (and your soul) are copyright me.