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.
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