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.