A cossack firing squad <br />Each round an anxiety <br />No ceasefire could quell. <br /> <br />Battlefield surgeons <br />Hold whiskey anesthetic <br />With all the precision that brings. <br /> <br />Cut blind at dirty <br />Stitches; wounds <br />Hastily sewn shut. <br /> <br />Refugee camps line the pavement <br />Like plaques left to commemorate <br />The wounded and the damned. <br /> <br />The spring sunshine stands tall <br />The time when kings leave their kingdoms <br />March out towards battles on battles. <br /> <br />Red Army retreat meets indifferent fire; <br />Sensuous mass of limbs move, <br />Her voice cracking no quarter. <br /> <br />Again, I'm on the rack <br />A glutton for punishment, <br />My joints too close together, anyway. <br /> <br />Loose lips sink ships <br />I sing like a bird <br />Calling to <br /> <br />The sick moon, <br />In her wisdom <br />Igniting her pale beauty. <br /> <br />Her grey pallor <br />Like a ghost <br />Gone to haunt.<br /><br />Tyler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waterloo-5/
