I have written this letter of my impending death
Of my own will, my delusion, in my last breath
A spear breaches the armor, pain penetrates the soul
I bear this wound in horror and march on through the snow
Oh, that I were home with you
Blessed to be of the surviving few
To live the dream of freedom’s bliss
To escape the ink of death’s list
There the young shall fear no more
The old shall rest with unlocked doors
There I shall play guitar and sing
And through the walls our laughter rings
Friends and neighbors shall smile and wave
There upon fresh linens we shall lay
To sleep the dark and rejoice the dawn
There the ties to life hold strong
Yet these tides have turned against the meek
My burning eyes grow tired and weak
I fear the cold has come to stay
And the blinding night has replaced the day
I attempt to hide in my pretense
But the storm is nigh, the fog grows dense
Redeemer of these fallen stars
The sky grows darker where you are
By these sands of time running low
I’m not so far from letting go
An enemy dances at our gates
Internal bigotry, fear and hate
Our children die in foreign wars
And here we ask "what was it for?”
Until at last we are no more
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
I have written this letter of my impending death
Of my own will, my delusion, in my last breath
A spear breaches the armor, pain penetrates the soul
I bear this wound in horror and march on through the snow
Oh, that I were home with you
Blessed to be of the surviving few
To live the dream of freedom’s bliss
To escape the ink of death’s list
There the young shall fear no more
The old shall rest with unlocked doors
There I shall play guitar and sing
And through the walls our laughter rings
Friends and neighbors shall smile and wave
There upon fresh linens we shall lay
To sleep the dark and rejoice the dawn
There the ties to life hold strong
Yet these tides have turned against the meek
My burning eyes grow tired and weak
I fear the cold has come to stay
And the blinding night has replaced the day
I attempt to hide in my pretense
But the storm is nigh, the fog grows dense
Redeemer of these fallen stars
The sky grows darker where you are
By these sands of time running low
I’m not so far from letting go
An enemy dances at our gates
Internal bigotry, fear and hate
Our children die in foreign wars
And here we ask "what was it for?”
Until at last we are no more
Traveler Tim
2006
Request permission to use this poem