Title Times

In an old dusty bar,
The General grabbed a drink,
He smelled of coal and tar,
And sipped as if to think,
He had a poker face,
And a stiff upper lip,
Wore a uniform stripped of grace,
And his cane was missing it’s tip.

The barman thought it odd,
For the man to be alone,
He should be feeling like God,
Now that the fort was blown,
So he took a dirty cloth,
And a bottle up from shelf,
Brought them all to him both,
For the man to help himself.

The General nodded his thanks,
But the barman stayed to ask,
Where are your other ranks,
Have you sent them on a task?
The man looked at him,
A tear took his eye,
Then the General spoke the truth,
Even though he preferred the lie.

There are sins I am guilty for,
That is why I weep,
We have won the world it’s war,
But my men are all asleep.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

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