The Teacher -------------------------------------------
Cold iron raises it's forts in the sequence
Of knitting it's own existence into ours.
My God…we'll all be SLAVES!
Is it strange that it is will against this misery
That loses it's, ever smaller, dynasty of heroes?
It is the commencement of something real…
Something ultimately raw and achingly gray.
I'm afraid to say it…but it's the oldest pain -
Old as the legacy of this solar domain,
This part of the dream reluctant universe.
Our lives are no more and no less
Then the songbirds in the stasis of sickening noise.
Its lyrics sing our collapse and fragrant undoing
On the stench of our cowardly blood and, finally,
Our hearts within it's blade's reach will cease their struggle.
In the bottom-most heirlooms of human decay
Our trembling faces will turn into phantoms
And the bright cascading agony will burden us
With methane and barb wire
And none shall say there is no lesson learned.
I wish I could find the words to describe this poem. It's the perfect description that I've read so far regarding the 'endless waltz' of war. The vocabulary you've used here really adds to the overall effect.
Honestly, after reading this for the third time, I still have to say that this wasn't written by an amateur, great job!!