Note: An old poem of mine, a presaging of my poetry’s tendency towards grimness and written from the perspective of an unnamed narrator. I had been reading some World War One poetry.

Men are beasts, no, not beasts but birds,
Crows, a murderous mass, murder of
Madness and murder. “Mori,” they prattle,
“Pro patria dulce et decorum est,”
While we murder, crow, and call it war.
Some few know this and nest in the corpse-meat.
The flock, the murder of man-crows merely
Mass behind a swatch of mystic cloth,
Cloth crimson, candle- lit, and drenched
With the blood of crows both blind and barren.
We few, we scrappy few, we band of
Sons of mothers, we few who see it
Do as I. I, we,
Wither and waste our whims to page,
Where a thousand perchance or only one man
May read, whisper, wipe a tear, and forget.
Crows we are, each manly murderer’s chest
A black, full feather of rusted blood.
Crows we were, cawing like crackling bones,
Killing-sticks thirsting deep for each craven’s life.
Crows we will be, a broken hand raised to the sky,
To sudden see a scythe- like claw,
Sun- hued save for our crusted, crimson blood,
Snared and snarled by spasms, dead.
Laugh, ye dead, rejoice, ye damned,
Mock us who live yet and remember you.