Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

How thankful I am not to enter that night,
where deceitful sleep is but a mere shadow
for the horrors to come,

How grateful that these fright nightmares
do not actualise to haunt me,
that swift thoughts of suicide
are turned up dull in the cool logic of tomorrow,

How with a shrug I now turn and laugh
past the old decrepit war memorial,
a pond infested with those old phantasms;
victims of an untimely sleep,

How young and free it is to waltz through
pastures where once a brave youth struck
by a bullet passed through a thought in his brain
leant under a silver moon,

How grateful that a cold wind sweeps past
the beggars outside, not I
and through that bleak and desolate afternoon
it's they who sense the beauty of the poppies.

How sweet this warm cosy armchair,
where my thoughts cannot sway,
to heaven nor to hell -

Where a bookshelf of thieves
is erected upon lofty ground,
I sit here and write,
as humanity sits outside on an empty bench,