A slow rabble was the army tent
In the sense events commenced.
Lines lingered laughingly long
Senescent men intent in resentment
Furiously fighting fear.
Young men too, letting bravery ferment
Fools to the firmament.
Fate's Impertinent
Bent by torments underwent.
Who begged to be sent off to war?
Not me for sure; not anymore.
I won't ask why I was whisked away,
That I thought through though.
Wistfully waiting, I Inclined
To outline this old tale of mine
In the event I'm left behind.
So to whom it may concern,
Know you how my spirit burned!
Watch as I, while mortal
Fought foul fate, so much unearned
And how, with luck, I'll yet return.
This is the fifth poem in my The ****** Journal series, although I suppose you could call this the first poem in the set, as this is going to be the beginning of the narrative. Feel free to critique!
