July 16, 2019
The Unfound Generation by David Moore
Poppy artSource: The Unfound Generation | Wolfgar Words
Words strung across pages of No Mans Land
like spilt intestines dragged through bloody time,
obscenely lit by flares of remembrance,
strobe like nightmares illuminating faces never seen.
Those wretches, unconcerned with poetry and prose
spat out their hauntings not caring they ever be read.
Such horror was their reality, now our fiction,
so full of hell they detached from it, regressing in utero.
How many last words “Mother” how many last skies black?
how thick with mud the bloodied track, how void then of scarlet petals
From misery came misery, from the art of war came art,
from roaring cannon came silent peace, and from hate came love.
But still from war comes war, as always will.
The Greatest Generation of Men remains Unfound.
© Wolfgar 2018
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