"The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it." Sylvia Plath.

Amidst the depths of contemplation’s maze,
Words grotesque and selfish lie ablaze,
A fusion of curdled musings intertwine,
 In late October light, a restless mind resigns.

Like an old moon, friendly yet discreet,
Stalks the dawn sky, casting shadows sweet,
In this time of rhyme, where memories reside,
Shrines are built; forever soldier-boys denied.

Unaccompanied, they stand still shivering in time’s embrace,
Lost souls stranded in history books, their lives all but erased,
Yet in our deepest hearts, their presence forever holds sway
Their place a solemn reminder of the bitterest ironies of fate.

I will not forget the lessons they impart,
Their tragedy etched in every absent heart
For in this poem’s ink, their spirits will rise 
In an ode to a testament of love denied.

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