The Museum is a glass monstrosity,

It is an abortion of architecture.

Built to please the eye’s of those not yet born.


In a Wing Designated “European Conflict”

there are Weapons displayed with gruesome glee,

Tools once held by young mens hands.


Outside in the courtyard refreshments are available.

Children are laughing and playing, joyous noises.

Old men sit, quietly staring at their palms.




Thunderous almighty Hymns

offered up in glory tones,

cannot replace our severed limbs

Or grow new flesh on splintered bones.


Nor, all the well oiled smooth prosthetics

fuse a mind flashed white with shock,

enough to jolt what stalled kinetics

Restoring life where now there’s not.


Through their smiles and stoic grit

there stalks a shadow lurking low,

and yes I see the curse of it

That only those who’ve lost can know.


The pride that shines in Un-warred eyes

is pity inside out,

just like a promise turned to lies

Forgot, it counts for nowt.



So this the welcome comfy chair

the one dismissed without a care

when I was once one who was there

to stand among the battles glare


Yet now am girdled by my years

flooded deep in bloody tears

too old to care for what is fear

I reach toward my end that’s near


For I have borne fine Children too

and shown them not the things I do

but bid them raise their better lives

that peace be seen through brighter eyes