Old Poems

“The Hill”

People may try to glorify war,
But it is death, and nothing more.
The screams, the gore, the gnarled limbs,
The loss of life, hell chiming in.
When the mines cough, legs fly off,
The screams of war, the blood our chore.
The blood that was spilled to take that hill,
The people that were shot and killed.
All for a hill, with no life of its own.


“The Love That Cannot Be”

She walks with a polished beauty,
Graceful, sweet, with a glowing hue.
She loves life, and all its joys,
This I know to be very true.
She has a golden heart,
Cares for her people, of which I am one,
Acceptance lies there, too,
One day she'll find her place in the sun.
And though positivity remains,
A growing darkness, only I can explain.
For I love her, and she loves me,
But ours is a love that cannot be.