The Old Lie Poem by Spanner Thegob

Battle over,
War is done,

Death,
the prize we share.

The other world,
the half world.

We greet our comrades there.

Graveolent air assaults the senses.
Unregarding empty stares,
tyrannous silence descends,
from the battlefield.

Survivors, Returning
to a disinterested world,
March through Blood,
congealed.

In honoured rest interred,
In unmarked graves we lie,
Death had called too soon.

Armistice day they honour us.
Service ribbons glisten as tired breasts
March to a military tune.

The dead remembered,
are living
under a Melancholy moon