Wilred Owen- Poppy and Bex

And the constant bangs of guns is a given

along with the everlasting pulse of guilt

it will drill through my heart

even once my lights are out

even once I have been scavenged by rats

Even once my body is only bones,

My flesh torn out by animals,

it will still pulse through their dirty frames

the disgrace; the delusion

We have been trapped in a cage,

more than just a khaki suit,

more than the trenches,

many more times than that poster

my mind is gloomy and tattooed with memories of what

The conflict has made us suffer,

our hearts are slowly decaying,

Rotting alongside the crippled bodies

lying haphazardly in the mud

I can’t even bare to coup d'oeil a look,

at the fountain of blood and bodies

lounging in the muddy sludge,

but I no longer have a choice,

I no longer have a say

not since that poster’s tattooed my mind,

the loud bangs clatter no more in my ears; they only rattle in my heart,

beating like the messenger birds wings

thump, thump, thump,

clouds of gas billow high

leaving men fumbling drowning in their own pain,

and when the nurses scrape with their medical tools

its like the white feather burrowing deep inside me

wrenching my guilt out more than what we would get from the ladies,

and no matter how much admiration we get for fighting,

what we have done will never be right

We made others suffer during the conflict,

now we are suffering more;

the admiration swatting our hearts is a white feather

We came to war excited, young, free,

But then we were possessed,

Possessed by evil murderers,

We are who we are, but we’re not,

the war makes our hands dirty

spilling aged, civilised blood

through the fingers off us murderers,

though we are said to be heros,

heros, innocent heros.

But we are tinted by our memories stained by what we’ve done

But no verdicts have been placed,

no bells to recognise the dead,

only white feathers for those who stood up tall,

and withheld more pressure than any shell could produce

The pure white feather is blood stained with guilt,

Like the young innocent minds of the enemy troops,

The young men we brutally murdered,

like the young men we used to be,

Is this what the government want?

Is this how they want us to live?

Is this how they want us to die?