We build statues
To men who never
Risked their lives
But sent other men to war
We write their names
In history books
In gold leaf
Praise galore.
Those who perished
Names on a plaque
Polished once a year
When the so called
Civic dignatories
Step outside the door.
Theres no mention
Of the madness
Some still suffer
To this day
The mud the death
The lice and disease
Shrapnel wounds
Or bodies in decay.
After the ceremony
November fades
Just memories
Now long ago
But the pigeon shit
In remembrance lands
Upon those statues
Every day.
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Author:
nephilim56 (
Offline) - Published: June 10th, 2025 02:20
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Damaso
Offline)
Comments1
It is the power of this poem and the poignant relevance that gets the fave. It has always been that way recognition is bought not in deeds but in the currency of power. This is the same on all fields of battle even poetry
so true, thanks for comments much appreciated
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