How must your bodies feel about your minds?
Marching methodically into death’s maw
Liquor, laughter, love of myriad kinds
Live to the south; you can sense their sweet draw
But north you plod, determined, resolute
How incredulous your young hearts must be
Life’s throbbing need to persist, absolute
You coldly ignore, though your feet are free
I do not have your strength, nor your courage
A sharp, thirsty, Teutonic scythe awaits
That would a gallant hero discourage;
Cutting down tall, thin poppies: that, it sates
What can I offer you, who fell for me?
Brief words, and an enduring memory
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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