The Poetry of World War IV - 8

The Poetry of World War IV - 8
Christopher Bogart

“One flame to curse the darkness…”

1.
Behold, a white horse.
His rider advances him forth,
And halts.
Peering below the heavy metallic visor,
The Boy beholds the faceless visage of power.
Through the rider’s eyes, he sees:
Men who, chosen to command,
Twist the tender fate of Man –
Telling what was never true
To cover inconsistencies.
He views men who command by force,
Who spike the bridle of the horse;
Whose boot, equipped with golden spur,
Cuts deep into the tender flank –
Unwitting mortality.
Then, before his tender eyes,
A vision rift with human cries:
People walking in straight lines,
Over hills, through deeper valleys…
A winding caravan of winding figures,
Following the one before him,
Eyes fixed still on slender rods,
Tied in bundles, raising up high –
Senselessly, in seemed eternities.