November Poem a Day 2011, Day 11
Two minutes is such a short amount of time
To last so long, to be filled with so much death.
By now we know, and needn't be told:
Nothing is really ever free, especially death.
On Veterans' Day in a time of war,
What can we say that doesn't silently scream: death?
Though the tap of the drums, changes source,
Is it any less daunting when it tattoos out d-e-a-t-h?
What was it the war poets said?
That honor is love or that there really is no death?
How lucky we are, William, to know about death,
To expect so much more & yet so much less out of life.
Two minutes is such a short amount of time
To last so long, to be filled with so much death.
By now we know, and needn't be told:
Nothing is really ever free, especially death.
On Veterans' Day in a time of war,
What can we say that doesn't silently scream: death?
Though the tap of the drums, changes source,
Is it any less daunting when it tattoos out d-e-a-t-h?
What was it the war poets said?
That honor is love or that there really is no death?
How lucky we are, William, to know about death,
To expect so much more & yet so much less out of life.
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