Posts Tagged ‘history’

I find myself too close to the frontline,
A contest between two flags,
I see flames encroaching on the horizon,
The heat grins upon my cheeks,
Scalding like impending doom,
These highlands are a no-go zone,
A board game too close to a fireplace,
The stage of a ruinous romp,
The two flags converse here in mushroom clouds,
Talking points at destructive decibels,
Airstrike arguments,
And howitzer handshakes,

I dare not linger,
These men in high castles care not for the little guy,
They propel uranium darts at this wasteland board,
Collateral damage upon their tongues,
Before kissing above the carnage they wrought.

Death haunts the depths,
A manmade shark,
A machine of war fathoms down,
In the cold below,
It is on the trail of prey,
A cyclopean eye guiding the way,
Stalking those unaware seals of steel above,
Merchant ship or frigate,
Following the reverberations of their iron lungs,
The word is given,
Doom is silently unleashed at knots,
And once the hunt is over,
And the prey is scrap metal,
Fade like orcas into the dark.

Stories are kept upon a knifes edge,
Stashed in libraries laid on precipices,
Entropy claws out at them,
A howling void that knows only hunger,
These repositories are locked by closed lips,
The only keys are held by our elders,
To be passed down father to son,
Matriarch to daughter,
And as the adage utters,
Each time an old man dies,
The library of Alexandria burns anew,
Pillaged by raiders of time,
And the stories are gone,
Wisdom lost to the pyre,
If not passed on by generational torch.

Down those hospital stairs,
That chilly room is a sterile graveyard,
Clad in cold iron doors,
In place of stone markers,
Names replaced by codes on little tags,
Souls preserved just past the point of death,

Their stories will never rot though,
Even entropy can’t rewrite time,
This body here was a tyrant among tyrants,
This one has saved orphans abroad,
Over here we have an artist to succeed Picasso,
This one here was a master thief,

The lights behind their eyes are dark,
But these husks are still receptacles of stories,
People reduced to their bodily memories,
Held in iron caskets,
To be burned to ashes,
Or rusted away by time.

In that old photograph,
That two-dimensional coffin,
I see a different funerary rite,
Morbidity crossed with sentiment,
It retains a person as they were,
Holding their face from the rot,

The glazed and sad eyes,
The agape jaw,
The hands that’ll never caress again,
The erosion of a life,
Frozen in time,
Held in amber shade for eternity,

In grim contrast does it bring comfort,
Seeing that revenant of a life,
It’s a posed denial of entropy,
That grainy image,
It’s an icon of mourning,
Memento mori.

There’s a house on a river,
Tan and gothic in aesthetic,
Accompanied by a grand clock,
It’s a house of relics,
And I don’t mean antiques,
Red and blue in blood,

Sat along benches feigning opposition,
Breathing naught but dust and hot air,
They pass edicts destroying millions,
Guffawing and cheering like children,
Starvation and poverty are the gifts they offer,
The serfs shall be happy with crumbs,

They’re despicable little men,
Fat cats in silly wigs,
A deceitful gentleman’s club,
Just out for their chums,
It seems they’ve packed this flophouse out,
The house now only holds whispers of fraud,

You may ask,
Has honesty ever graced its halls?
Well there was this one Guy called Fawkes.

Under darkened and pessimistic skies,
Mistakes are routinely made,
Take for one the tale of Pandora,
And her cat-killing curiosity,
She did open that box,
That reliquary of curses,
And it did spew forth all manner of hells,

It brought forth war,
Pestilence and great toil,
Demons and all manner of monster,
It manifested the reaper we all meet,
Pandora finally wrenched it shut,
But only one curse remained prisoner,
Hope,

That most elusive captive.

This battle has ground on too long,
Our leaden provisions are loaded,
A thousand metal hailstones,
Placed carefully into our artifice of death,
Our own mouth of hell,

The power I have at hand is grimly palpable,
I need only turn this crank,
And hundreds of lives will end in gore,
Rotate sight and fire,
They told me there was honour in battle,

The order is given,
It’s us or them,
Rotate sight and fire,
Our engine of death rattles in rage,
Cutting down uniforms like chaff,

Despite the hellfire,
I feel cold,
There is no honour in this,
Warfare has become manufacture,
Rotate sight and fire.

Under thundery skies of white,
Came the rumble of tracks,
And the boom of gunnery,
A boreal front is rent open,
An iron cross enclosing upon an eastern jugular,
Hammer and sickle on the backfoot,
Surrender was no option,
And so flesh was ground against iron,
The blitzkrieg was on,

Two flags spiral around each other in dispute,
Cities and fields become their shrapnel market,
Lives were the currency paid in full,
But both fate and snow had other ideas,
The winter came to its sons aid,
Freezing fuel and choking soldiers in grey,
Another weapon against the iron cross,
Like the little emperor before,
This evil could not weather the winterstorm.

Many have come before us,
Men and women and tales aplenty,
Losses and victories and expirations,
Voices fading as every moment passes,
Though we can no longer see them,
They exist within us,
Codices and tomes in our veins,
We are living archives,
With histories branded into our spirits,
As well as templates for the future,
And that is the key,
To be templates worth recreating,
Ancestors worth remembering.