A calling that must be obeyed--
bloodied and broken he lies,
the battlefield he makes his home,
fallen like a gladiator of Rome,
hearing his brother’s last cries--
with a bullet in his heart he dies.
Oh the artist he could have made,
even Picasso would he surpass--
a gentle brush stroke brings life,
instead he sleeps by his knife,
all the medals he would amass--
his bloody world of iron and brass.
There was music in his soul--
a prodigy like Mozart in his youth,
his name would live on for ages,
as his composition floods the pages--
then we ask what is really uncouth,
taking innocent lives or concealing the truth.
A more fortunate man digs a deep hole,
the last few pages of a journal revealed--
as Vienna in the time of Shakespeare,
he could never really find his place here--
death upon words that would have healed,
here lies the warrior poet in an open field.