A Poem Makes It Forever

In war, for all its evil, there is a strange beauty, unwritten poems. A hard, aching love, for your brothers, the dawn, some impossible bird, juking through shrapnel, on flashing blue wings. A wistful longing, for oh, how the world could be, always should be, but is not. A hard grimace, of knowing, it all does not matter... no one listens. So now, in the shadows, darker hours, memories make it all now, while a poem... makes it forever. Dredged from the past, where forgotten things belong.