Visitors pass from empty bed
to empty bed, like Royals,
silently soaking up the dread
atmosphere with remote respect.

Examining clipboard histories,
rehearsing their medical soaps.
Volunteers answer questions,
the front line troops in trying
to raise our war dead back to life.

Have a care John Willie was not
just a private, not a number,
nor a diagnosis. He was
a person and a brave soldier.

Old photos frame soldiers' pains,
they're wearing posterity masks,
hiding feelings and memories
that lurch back again and again.

What have I done but obey the cynical dogma that plagues the patriots?
(then to be rewarded with the cutting rattle of the guns
that dehumanised the holiest saints.
MIA the pawn who obeyed.)

Can we sacrifice to "the Cause", for the end?
(without the other side sacrificing more.
Men should press toward the enemy.
We will win because ten minus one equals nine
Rip the glorified general.)

Possibly **** the man I call brother for hesitation.
(with the gun that conscripted me to his side.
"killed for the disobeying of orders".
They will say that I was a traitor
But never a man of his country
RIP the brother that hesitated.)

Justify the sin that will be forced upon my brother.
(As I will not commit the sun that will be forced upon me.
RIP the holy deserter.)

The multination of a child.
(Thats what Devils do.
That's what they did to me.
Destroying what I took for granted.
RIP the young amputee.)

Glorification of the war as some sort of game.
("Come sign up you be a hero"
I lied in front of them
But back then I even believed myself.
RIP the gulibal propagandist)

In war winning is living
(Yet not a one I am willing to play.
RIP the veteran)

Destruction of the family tree
(Destiny was not prepared for the irrational.
RIP the mother that worried)

What can possibly justify the glorification in destruction?

And as they marched home,
Hollow from the victory of war
Only those who returned were welcomed,
Despite desperate eyes searching
For one more face
And reluctant ears intent
On not hearing another name on that list,
That long, long list.

From Amiens upon the Somme
Across the land into the Salient
Our brave men toed the ebbing line

Through wire and mines
Through mud and blood
Through many men and horses shred
Under sun and moon
Through wet and flake
Little rest they won as they fought
The testing yards and inching miles

The scent of death clear in their heads
Their nostrils burning from hell resent
Cauterised wounds some munition singed a deathly end for some
Their eyes by night a blazing fired earth of blues Oranges yellows Reds

Their ears ringing whistles and drums
A sense of booming dread as all around the melee continued
Death by death, Man by man, Son by son
Precious sons many in numbers they did succumb
To the battle cry of walk not run

Blood curdling in their gas filled lungs
Fungi in their rotting boots
Sweat and tears in itchy suits
Muscles aching tendons taught
Nerves for some as they were next
To mount and face the hidden land
Where fate would deal its dreaded blow
On to meet the dreadful wall of death

Choice was none, no turning back
They stood as force though force would guide, those of fear and wisdom's stand,
Over, or rest where shot by those by order for descent


© Robert Kingston 17.10.14