In The Brown Battlefield Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

Men slash each other and bleed together, the battles go on and on as long as political power is seen as control of others instead of service to others. And the crown lies waiting for the strongest and most brutal to grab it. But does he see the thorns that will pierce his skull? Or does he just see the roses that will beautify him and puff up his ego? I just finished watching a new movie version of Shakespeare's four early plays on the War of the Roses: Your poem is a fitting epitaph to Shakespeare's tragic vision of men obsessed by (vicious) power and (empty) glory. The producers call their film THE HOLLOW CROWN and that d=sense of the futility of earthly power informs your poem.