Poised Pen

in the field between poppies and dying limbs a pen lay poised pleading with words pressed upon pages lined with youth's blood beating rhythm unheard from now silent hearts grief flowing with inky sadness into lark's eyes metaphors unnecessary staring into reality's harsh face the pen skips a beat as death claims victory yet again another name to silently record into history and poetry is war a war fought through words of emotion begging an end to tiny crosses we don't wish to visit with declarations that we will no more engage in battle but the words lay still ignored by war's eyes hungering for pain to fill its chest poets fight on expressing anger in narratives to beseech and each year we read the words anew of hope with sadness and deep longing for we don't believe in the words and therefore they have no meaning as war carries on the pen remains poised to write the ending with relief and as the poppy bleeds its red into the sunset the pen knows it will never win the war...