Poets Die Young
In case I die too fast of this sad wound, thought light it seems to be, take note that I refuse to let this mortal flesh rest silent in a graveyard row with countless other men. For men may rather count on me to rage and row as if appointed spokesman by my fellow dead, rotting refuse of no note, that cannot bring to light their cause of death, wound tight in funeral shrouds stained red as if with dye. A case, an empty frame like mine, fast-starved, may rather yet still wound with light, or pitch a note to shatter fragile hubris of those who yet refuse to row the Styx. Stick-thin, my resting bones will still recount the fallen rows, the funds refused, and annotate the lists of light-armed men, wounded, fast-abandoned cases of no merit – by those who fuel their second homes, expense accounts and daily cleans with blood-bought budget cuts.
Soldiers die younger