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