Poem: The Last Battle


The Last Battle

And when the last word is hurled
high over the ramparts,
the last cruel phrase has left it’s blood,
and there is nothing left but casualties,

some will live, wounded beyond recognition,
and some will die, their hearts withered in pain,
and the victors will look around at the carnage, wondering
what they have done, and why, and how

they could have won the battle
and lost the war.

About this poem

I was at the Round House Cafe today for an early lunch after my Xray, and saw a chess board off to one side. I snapped a picture with my phone because I was sure there was a poem in the arrangement of the pieces.

And I was right.


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