This is Not the Poem I Had Hoped to Write
This is not the poem I had hoped to write
when I sat at my desk and the page was white.
You see, there were other words I’d had in mind,
yet this is what I leave behind.
I thought it was a poem to eradicate war;
one of such power, it would heal all the sores
of a world torn apart by conflict and schism.
But it isn’t.
Lovers, I’d imagined, would quote from it daily,
Mothers would sing it to soothe crying babies.
And whole generations would be given new hope.
Nope.
I had grand aspirations. Believe me, I tried.
Humanity examined with lessons applied.
But the right words escaped me; so often they do.
Have these in lieu.
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my dear Brian:
there ARE no words.
Jesus weeps.
Dear Bard, dear Brian Bilston
Don’t despair there’s time still, son,
The world’s not yet confounded
The last Trump hasn’t sounded
And though there’s a mound dead
Not everyone’s Hegsdeth,
The man with the smeg’s breath,
Humanity’s dregs, yes,
And though he thinks kills fun
The thought of peace thrills one
Iain M Spardagus