The Poet at War
Wartime poets spill their souls, before they spill their blood,
Like trees which shed their leaves, before the cold comes like a flood.
Dropping lonely messages, in colors drab and bright,
Images of hope and loss, within that fall of night.
Scattered about in disarray, the thoughts and dreams of youth,
And stark against the bleak gray sky, a skeleton of truth.
These cries of anguish won’t be stilled. Their voices will not die.
The eyes of young men still will search the ever-darkening sky.
Until their hearts are answered, and peace can warm their dust,
Until expressions in their eyes have taught us what they must,
Until their long-lost belles have been wrung out of all their tolls,
Entreaties from the graveyard are engraved upon our souls.
NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . September 24, 2004
So poetry does kill people?