1917 Poem by martin.j. schofield

In the midst of 'this' eternal carnage,
The stricken voices entomb their sorrows,
vent uncompromising pain, amid deluge,
and cry out for comfort;
Though none is to be had,
Yet the question remains aloft,
Why, oh sadly Why?
Is it all in vain? amid refuse,
The garbage of humanity-
sits disheveled and dishonoured, amid pride;
in watery tombs, at the bottom of a hadean slide,
Limbs softened and flesh blotted,
with torso's battered, from the batteries,
that sent volley after volley,
from an old mans nonsensical folly;
The strength and conditioning of virile, eager young men,
Excited by the prospects of war amid the games,
Where no names need exist,
A young poet had known these cliches,
But when I was born, he died,
so I never received more than just a glance,
perchance;
So ironic for him, to survive,
When so many he knew, did fall in the wet and the mild-and the dew.
He had witnessed, and was guilty as charged,
when he pulled the trigger to offset and unload,
the burdens of such, and the miseries of most;
The heavier became the crown that he wore,
more cumbersome;
to the appeal of that which he bore,
which dampened the spirits and melted the zeal,
Did the highly polished medals glisten,
as to Wilfred, would he listen?
as off to war they did march
with their boots all a-glare and their uniforms solid-like stiffness as if with starch,
row by row they might fall,
pop them back up so again, once more they -
may heed the call.
Not distracted by 'cause',
yet the question remains aloof,
Why, oh sadly, 'Why? '
Each Empire was striving for purpose,
sending forth their pride and glory,
the dire consequences so far reaching,
as to feed the fields-
from Flanders to the Pyrenees;
such fear as this, could only be realized in the dirt crusted womb-
of the devils backyard,
where he took his stock of souls,
by the bucketful, loading his wagons and circled his fold,
bound by treachery and glee,
such a bountiful crop,
a beautiful array of humanity; from which to pick,
Yet from the shells effect, there was no-where to flee,
The orchards of abundant fruit, could not harvest or equal such as this,
Nor such naivety,
could be obtained from opulence,
for this was depravity of the worse kind;

I had to pause for awhile and try to smile,
a moment to reflect, and say a small prayer,
for a lost generation,
a feeling of utter despair,
A sickening, overwhelming sense that now, few did care,
as if forgotten in the journals of time,
a text book reference might infer:
a credit or two how sublime,
and not much more! !