The Present Captives: Poetry


Hands bound, 
they march with heads bowed
but hearts in tune with retribution
during a time beyond their deaths

They pitch their tents along
the edge of a barren forest
in a starless night
now devoid of hope and dream

There was once a Light within
the mournful fog to guide them,
but it has fallen silent,
forsaken in dismal oblivion

Spy them now, 
singing drunken odes of nihilism
while recalling the dreams of soldiers
their forefather's used to know.



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