"Remember, remember,
The 𝘍𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘩 of November:
Gunpowder, treason, plot.

For there is a reason
Why gunpowder & treason
Should ne'er be forgot."

Aye.
Drop all the bawny
And read it right:
One will notice
The exclusion in remembrance
Of plot proper.

What drivel, what rot.

A nursery rhyme,
Meant to lull asleep a populace.
You hear the story
That they were religious nuts,
That was projection.

Not a soul on our side
Was for balmy superstition.

We who was folks of science & virtue,
Philosophy proper was our standard -
What that had been & is corrupt.

Remember the Fifth
And remember his brother;
Two blonde youths,
Two tawny royal lads,
And one whom they slaughtered.

We fought for the expansion of freedoms,
Civil liberties & such.
For the likes of social programs now widely enjoyed -
Schooling, healthcare, and the like.
For not a soul among us to know hunger,
That they might have daily - bread
And the like.

A son named
After a king usurped -
Woodville, or Wideville;
For it is a large world,
But really quite navigable.

And a King who took a new name
In honor of his slain uncle,
D̲i̲c̲c̲o̲n̲ C̲l̲a̲r̲k̲e̲

Once more, where moored,
The only survivor.
Might is nary ever really right.
They too saw that
On the Isle Wight.

This line;
Long & tried,
Persecuted & replanted.
Forevermore,
As it had been before
And doubtless shall be again,
Wearing the verdant festoon.

In Old World, like New;
Truth is always the fashion,
Justice is always the passion.

I laid down my rifle
a long time ago.
No more shouting from trenches,
no more pride in the mud.

I surrendered.

But she didn’t.

She’s still bunkered up,
hiding behind sarcasm and silence,
armed with old pain
and the ghosts of nights I didn’t cause.

So I get hit.
Over and over.
Sharp words. Cold stares.
Misfired memories that land on my chest
like shrapnel.

But I’m not backing off.

I’m crawling through barbed wire made of what-ifs
and landmines labeled “don’t go there.”

And I’m close now.
Close enough to smell the old perfume
beneath the wine and wilted willpower.

Close enough
to throw in a grenade —
not of anger,
but of love.

Pull the pin.
Say the words.
Let it explode in light
instead of fire.

Let it end this war
with something softer
than surrender.

and it’ll be as if it never happened.

and it’ll all fade away.

days and months and years
and nothing will be the same.

maybe you’ll be older and wiser
maybe you’ll be kinder

and it’ll all be a bad dream
something to shake you up from your sleep

and it’ll leave you to wonder
was it even real?

have i no wounds to heal?
the scars will thicken over
it’ll be brand new again

you’ll forget of love and war
and you will never mend

the tiny fracture in your armor
will create the same salt somber

that somewhere your heart is thieved
that somewhere, within me, your heart, it grieves.

It’s been known that
“Those who cannot remember the past
are condemned to repeat it.”

Yet society seems to want to forget this very quote
Are we willingly ignorant, or have we forgotten
That a land composed of bloodshed
Will end in ruin?

Do we not know that the Sandy Hook Elementary School children
Would’ve been able to vote this year?
Do we not know that giving guns more freedom than humans
Will only result in more tiny graves?

Are we aware that the law people are using
To excuse sending away human who only want to
Live
Is the same law that allowed internment camps to be legal?

Do we not know that these arguments
wouldn't be able to make exist
If not for Mother Earth?
But we still want to sink our drills into her
Like wicked parasites.

We shame women who are too terrified
To tell the horrors they have lived through
Yet turn a blind eye when they say that
An abuser becomes the leader.

German soldiers in World War II
Thought they were saving their economy and
Protecting their nation
But history only remembers them as the villains
Why do we refuse to see that we already know how this plays out?

“A country that runs on the blood of its own children is
doomed to crumble from the inside out,” we scream.

We scream and we scream and we scream,
begging for people to hear our cries.

Hear us when we cry out that nothing will come of this
except enough bloodshed to bathe an army and
more corpses than there are living.

Hear us when we say society is evolving backwards so we already know the end.

Hear us when we cry our warnings, mourning what will become of our nation.

Hear us when we can say nothing more, buried six feet under, hear us as we plead from ever-growing caskets as you stomp on our graves.

Hear us when we say, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

There was a god
who fell asleep
upon a grassy field.

He dreamt of peace
and of war
on far, long, and stormy shores.

He’s still dreaming,
even now—
as men beat swords from their ploughs.

And he still sleeps,
not even a stir,
all of us just thoughts inside his head.

All Quiet on the Western Front

At the western front lies silence,
a quiet line in the daily brief,
no names, no tales, no echoes,
just mud, and metal, and grief.

A man still watched the distant sky,
his eyes held dreams and light,
but every breath was borrowed,
his path dissolved in night.

They wrote: “All quiet on the Western Front,”
as if nothing stirred or broke,
but in his final, fading sigh
a world collapsed in smoke.

No anthem rose, no final cry,
his end slipped past the page,
just one more boy the war forgot,
unseen upon the stage.

And so the viewer’s hope dissolves,
like mist upon the ground,
for the boy was never meant to last—
just silence, all around.