poetry
... to my position; an informer, he will be dealt with later, A captain rushes me, I stumble, but there is no deathly pain, just an arm around my neck, I am hauled outside and with a shriek tossed to the gutter. A pain rushes through, I grind my teeth to overcome it, I am brought to my senses, A feeling bites me; remorse. I hatch a plan. I pick up my revolver, take a steady aim, close my eyes. I see my worst ever moment, looking into me brothers dying eyes; my mental scar. I am part of Britain’s dying generation, a hero in war, forgotten at home. The revolver is in my hand. The cold steel against my pulsing temple. My finger twitches. Carl’s Poems A Mothers Grief They pity me and not my grief, I have nowhere to lay my wreath, I look for ghosts, remnants of the past, With each new letter, I fear the last. When each day dawns, each new light, Of Him I wait for; day and night, Without due warning I sent him forth, But what direction, south or north? Will I ever see him again? Had he not left, I’d feel no pain Delusion A flash of light, I dive to the floor, The confrontation with the monster; my own personal demon, has changed me, A member of my battalion questions me, this is where the bullet entered, the other side shows no mark, An old man point...