About one year after.

Westerly fronts are gone,

All quiet now.

Many men have gone.

Gone before us and tragic,

Leaves mowen

Before maturity, early cut

The Great Monuments state.

And their hand crafted bodies

Walked orderly into the fire

Of little hot metals.

Few with any desire to die,

Or collect medals.

The fallen few in the Heart,

One too many.

And this falls from my pen,

One Hundred Years after.

©️2019 Christopher Thompson

All rights reserved

Speed poem

Start 9.50 GMT

End 10.03 GMT


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