The Haunting Thought

 

The Haunting Thought

Each day, she felt the burden of weight, the inequity of life, resting on her soul,

While waiting on dusk, the sun setting West, the world into obscurity rolled.

Where light of day must yield, to the dark of night, and day colours concede,

Time for the waking world to rest from work, to fall asleep, from duties freed.

As light as feathers, floating from the yoke of day, into the spheres of dreams,

Drifting across the threshold, from reality, up into the realms of fantasy seen.

Leaving her bed far behind, knowing she should return, with the break of dawn,

Sometimes brought back, her mind in tatters, soul far from refreshed, all torn.

By the dream weaver, subjected to a state of restless thoughts, in wild storms,

With the plague of frightening creatures, meta morphing into fearsome forms.

Perhaps the restless dead, the troubled spirits, that hang out in darks domain,

Looking for another host, a fragile mind to occupy, to walk and breathe again.

Conjuring up strange illusions, the kind of folly inset, that she could not feign

Creating chaos in her mind, leaving her brain to wake, all battered and bruised,

Her mind distressed, bed in a mess, a state of pandemonium where she snoozed.

Where her mind was paralyzed, powerless to escape, held in a state of unrest,

Her reasoning subdued, bound in fearful thought, her consciousness repressed.

Oh, the sadistic pleasure, the dream weaver gets, casting each fearsome phase,

Fortunately, when woken, most of the monsters in her mind, have been erased.

As she is left to ponder, the meaning of her vivid dreams, each warning brought,

The point of her troubled state of mind, abused, the distressing visions wrought.

Aroused to face the host of new challenges, that each other day conveys to her,

More hurdles set in her way, more untimely anxiety, wherein the emotions stir.

Toward days end again, darkness encroaching, set to fight the demons of night,

Desperately yearning, to be granted peaceful dreams, according her soul respite.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2025)

The Truth Behind the Mask You Wear

 

The Truth Behind the Mask You Wear

When he looked into your empty eyes, condemnation, upon your crimes so grim,

As you cheat the world, with your crude attempts, to bury the truth deep within.

In dark forests, the evidence kept, far away from the eyes of the world, so blind,

Truth, the reflux persistently rising, in disgust, never suppressed, within his mind.

The acrid taste, so vile, that burns his lips, minds lost inside your maze of hate,

At what your mask hides from humanity, all the festering evil that will not abate.

The tangled web of deceit, and treachery, the corruption lurking in your psyche,

The trickery, and the fear that you spread, like a disease forever festering dislike.

Your collaborators, lurking in the shadows, as they sow and cultivate your seeds,

In league with you, committing cloak and dagger crimes, as your sickness breeds.

There is no reasoning, within the never-ending madness, where your ilk persists,

Bringing premature death and pain, your aggressive conflicts full of wicked twists.

Your sadistic pleasure seems to have no bounds, as you inscribe your evil brand,

On the defenceless innocent people of the world, who now suffer, hand in hand.

As you pervert reality with your lies, masking crimes, while committing genocide,

Silencing the God given right to truth, in your fight against the freedom to decide.

When he saw your people, the second-class citizens, kept living the poverty line,

His heart went out to them, living miserable peasant lives, evidence of your crime.

Against the will of God, robbing them blind, keeping them beset with ignorance,

Denying them the right to think, enlightenment, treating them with indifference.

What are they to you, and your kind, just worthless objects, you trade for death,

The Orcs you create, to fight in your bloody wars, where they are robbed of breath.

So, who are you, what right have you, to play the hand of God, to determine fate,

To sit upon the throne of absolute power, twisting truth, within your evil dictate?

There is a place set for you, in purgatory, for all the evil sods that you have turned,

A place in eternity, within the fires of hell, where your wicked soul will be burned.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2025)

The Old Generals Parade

 

The Old Generals Parade

All the eyes of envy, fell on the Generals, like the trees of Christmas decked,

In finely tuned positions of power, their uniforms set to command respect.

Shiny medals, made of solid silver and gold, hung on the finest silken braid,

Unlike the tin soldiers’ nickel and brass, strung up on cotton, cheaply made.

Where are all the war-torn veterans today, not allowed to steal the parade,

Written off, not a good look, in no fit state of mind, their nerves all frayed.

Some badly burned, wounded, and scared, or missing limbs, moving slow,

Brave soldiers, back from the meat grinder, with not much colour to show.

Haunted with fighting war, with nerves set on edge, too frightened to sleep,

Feeling awkward, back in civilian lives, uneasy with the company they keep.

Plagued with memories, too gruesome to share, that no one wants to know,

Troubled with the burden, the massive weight to carry, everywhere they go.

The President and his men, in attendance, the whole show cleverly staged,

Spare a thought for the tin soldiers, the bloody campaigns, they have waged.

The parade is marching by, with the rank and file, in strict regimental order,

And there is Mother Russia, choking back the tears, fetch her a shot of water.

She came to scour all the Generals empty eyes, to score their wicked souls,

Leaving her mark, for all grieving mums, for when the bell of reckoning tolls.

The brass band is in tune, as expected, they have practiced for weeks on end,

The long lines of tin soldiers keep coming, stretching back around the bend.

The flags and pennants, are flapping in the breeze, all the regimental names,

Where are all the heroes, who never made it home, their lives up in flames?

Cast into the inferno, to fill holes and cracks, no retreating, no coming back,

They have been through the grinder, now their corpses are all turning black.

Here come the raw recruits, as brave as brave can be, and as bold as brass,

They are off to the grinder next, with no idea how long their lives will last.

In this sorry part of the world, the sad war of attrition, is still gaining traction,

Here come the cadets, another generation, keen to get a piece of the action.

They have such romantic notions, of a soldier’s life, no idea the state of things,

To the Generals, what are they? Just lowly pawns, and puppets on the strings.

Every year the parade will repeat, for this is the Generals Day, of military glory,

The are dusted off, and bused to Victory Parade, their presence is obligatory.

Now here come the tanks, and missile launchers, a show of power and might,

What is that booming sound on the horizon? A squadron of fighters in flight.

In very tight formation, whizzing past overhead, chasing each other’s tails,

Shaking the ground, as they pass over, flying low, leaving long vapor trails.

Here come the ghosts, the poor lost soldiers, their presence so sorely borne,

The mountain of grief, too high to climb, each son lost, profoundly mourned.

To fill the void, where time is painfully spent, between each Victory Parade,

The endless bloody trail, whereupon, the blight of this soulless nation, paved.

The patriotic speeches have been made, president has delivered his sermon,

Parade finished, off goes the pied piper of Kremlin, with his band of vermin.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2025)