The Gong of Sanity

He lights a stick of musk incense to trounce the air that reeks of gloom. The Queen`s side pose on fifty pence deflects a brazen bullet of doom. From bulling boots, a startling sheen reflects his face and then his bride, no tank is like the limousine with blacked out windows--hitch a ride? He seeks the light, like manic moths before he signs the reaper`s scroll. Though trenches hide all khaki cloth, all bullets burrow like the mole. He sees the spectre`s dusky grin a bugle now plays `The Last Stand`. Stars are nails in twilight`s coffin hammered in place by warfare`s hand. Like Quasimodo striking bells this hunchback soldier triumphs through. A fife is blown to drown out shells though nothing's there. His mind. Askew.