A Poem by T.H. Dalton

Leaders speak the word, young men pick up  the sword.
Off to war they go, halfway around  the globe, all cause of one word they will go.
They will fall,  they will crawl and even die, yet they march  on.
With their swords high into the sky, generals lose their good  men as they die.
Yet, the war moves on as time ticks  on.


A young mother gets the word, her son has fallen  to the sword.
She dies inside, looking high into the sky, locked  in her head, she don't know why.
Halfway around  the globe a child will cry as its father fights on, tick,  tick, tick, precious time march’s on. The birds fly high into the sky, the earth rumbles low below. The waves  roll in as the swords slash and the shields clash as the young  men die's.


Another soldier stands in the deepest  pits of hell, holding a memory of only her smell, longingly for her touch, yet, it will be too much. Yet,  he hold's his sword high, ready to die as a tear drop's from  his eye to take another husband from her eye.


Faraway,  a young wife pray's. She hold's strong, but only for so long, he  has been gone far to long. On her knees,  she pray's to see him again some day. Barely breathing, begging  for one last dance, one last kiss, one last touch,  waiting for that world of peace, yet the world of war will  never cease.

© 2014 T.H. Dalton

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Added on March 17, 2014
Last Updated on March 18, 2014
Tags: war, death, t.h. dalton, dalton