Title: The descent to the gates of the living
by Krishan from London | in writing, poetry
The golden gates lie before us
The promise of glory in exchange for betrayal
The forked tail, burning with monstrous strength
Frames our fate before our very eyes.
In our infant state we stand
A single star the only witness
To foment the riposte so dearly we long for.
Our overlord dances to the deathly tune
Inept, incapable and insipid
As we, spavined and lame, trudge
Ruefully pitiless, red lips
Of those we envy stained darker
And heavily by the kiss of the dead.
A raven, perched on the olive branch,
Quoth the story the of the gates of hell
It is was not these gates which we fear,
But our very own, the gates of the living.
It is the sight of these gates at which we cry,
At which we laugh, hysterically choking simply on air
Bitter curd blots the innocent,
The guilty feast cadaverously
Unrepentant for crimes unsolved
For it is the trench which is
The prison for the righteous!
Shedding all my earthly ideals
I stand unshielded from the corrupt
Unarmed to attack the wrong
For the fight has been won
But the battle not ended,
And those who fight, merely forgotten
Men of the past, who time has abandoned.
And angles pray for them, a trickle of tears
That burn in the mind of soldiers,
Fall from the eyes of a friend
As he makes his final sullen cry
And draws his last breath
From the air which once choked,
For it is the gates of the living which stand
Glistening, unaffected, unaware,
Before him, a death of regret.
WW1.
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