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  • Poem

    Written in Algebra, then the last 5 stanzas in History.


    A hand glides across the metal,
    In with the breeze,
    A leaf, a flower’s petal
    And wheels roll by with ease.

    A cart tumbles down terrain,
    Near the frightened men,
    Jumpy, keeping restrain,
    Minds lost on their kin.

    A mind drifts back,
    But he keeps his mount,
    His steed follows the worn track,
    Forgotten footsteps, he’s lost count.

    They roll with their thunder,
    As they stride to their doom,
    Mortal is their every blunder,
    Every march is filled with gloom.

    A barren tree quakes as they walk by,
    A man on foot knows ‘tis spring,
    And so they wonder as to why,
    Why the tree has lost its wings

    Dark clouds loom in the distance,
    The roar of misery awaits,
    The men prepare their stance,
    But it is much too late.

    Some forget what it is they seek
    As each one falls,
    From a wound, they are weak,
    Fighting brothers and their sacred call

    A truth almighty
    An epic scene,
    As this battalion unsightly
    Eyes a distant gleam

    A feeble roar
    And clashing too,
    As front lines meet a scene of gore,
    Their hearts are still so true

    Months, years of battling,
    Their armors gone,
    Their bones tired and rattling,
    Marching to dusk from dawn

    The others now just in,
    Meeting now to kill their dreams,
    They feel the cold, cold wind,
    To die and go as He so deems

    But a cry from the one upon the steed,
    Calls to them,
    His army is in need,
    They must not let them win

    And so the fighters fight,
    The weepers weep,
    And they know that this is right
    To fight, fight on, for all that they do seek

    Determined for the one’s they love,
    Brothers beside them in their cause,
    They dare not look above,
    But fight on, no withdraws

    A spear catches on his old shield,
    He dives forth, takes a life,
    A power he’d prefer not wield
    But it saves on more moment of his life

    For every life he decides to take,
    Is another man,
    Whose cause he sees as fake,
    He screams for his men to keep their stand

    The vile oppressors stand tall as well,
    But the men’s hearts stay in the fight,
    And the battle that is a hell,
    Is to the oppressed, so right.

    And he wonders as their weapons clash,
    Remembers all the men who’ve fallen,
    Left behind, broken trash,
    It is their calling

    What about his fate,
    Is real and true?
    To he who see the sorrow and hate,
    As the blade cuts on, cuts through.

    Falling whispers as the warmth dies down
    A grin of heat,
    To a broken frown
    Dusk breaks, falls upon the fallen at their feet.

    They stand fighting, darkness immersed,
    A song of silence sung,
    A grunt with every verse,
    Tasting battle on their tongues

    A fight so real,
    And forgotten too,
    As was the petal’s feel,
    The old forgotten footsteps become new.

    A call rings out,
    Fight on! For all you love.
    An air of victory about,
    And flies by a frightened dove,

    The dove unseen,
    Without a light,
    Only their skin’s sweaty glean,
    Is seen through the night

    With sincerity and without regress,
    He feels the peril,
    He does not digress,
    To end this life un-sterile

    As another footstep is worn in the sand,
    A mess of imprints on the ground,
    How long will they stand,
    How long ‘till they are found?

  • #2
    That was amazing! Well done.
    Originally posted by Soldier96B
    i also took a crap and it was orange


    • #3
      Always enjoy your poems T140... :clap:

      Glad to see your mind isn't wandering during history and algebra class.
      (like I should talk)

      You've got to know when to sack em...


      • #4
        Originally posted by Nas
        Always enjoy your poems T140... :clap:

        Glad to see your mind isn't wandering during history and algebra class.
        (like I should talk)

        more like gives me something to do since all my work is done


        • #5
          I love poems too, and this was great - but I do admit that the A/B rhyme scheme gets a little old after a while. A very nice piece of work though. CP to you!


          • #6
            T140 - GOOD to see you lady!

            You will have to update us on the wolves please.

            Loved the poem, you really have a gift.
            "War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.

            John Stuart Mill (Look him up )