11 November 2012

Over The Top

His serial-numbered shell
Took out the whole platoon,
Bayonets and pipes and kilts and all.

The stifled battle-cry,
Vaguely Gaelic, burning
With the aftertaste of rum,

Voiced the ancient barbarity
Regimentally nurtured
In the 'Ladies From Hell.'

The shrieking axe bit deep,
Hacked the post-death sentience
To a sliver of awareness.

The clenched discarnate soul
Focused a consciousness
Frozen in mid-leap.

A cry of ritual aggression
Silently screaming
Down eternity.



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