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Wooden Soldiers

(incomplete piece that I havent been able to finish effectively -_-)

So many wooden soldiers
Marching onward to their fate
Unbeknownst to them the purpose,
Thirst for blood they cannot sate
Hard faced and grim they march forever
Their eyes as cold as stone
Tin rifles on oaken shoulders
Fighting for an iron throne
Lead slugs in heart of rowan
Unfeeling, he marches on
A step he takes then falls away
And thus is one life gone
His comrades march e'er forward
His shattered flesh unseen
Bathed in blood and clothed in red
His life ne'er serene.
 
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It's almost as depressing as real war. :/
 
That is grim, truly grim. However it is also a very good piece of poetry, which to me seems to illustrate the pointlessnes of war, and how soldiers often fight for causes they are not even sure of. That's just my interpretation though.
 
Thats how I intended it to be seen, Zakalwe.
Ive been trying for a good while to come up with a few verses to close it up, but Ive failed pretty spectacularly.
 
From the rhythym of the work so far it has come to a natural end and I think to extend it you would need to add quite a bit more, which may in fact take something away from it. It has reached an ending, but if you think it needs some more (I will be the first to admit that my knowledge of poetry is poor to say the least), then my good wishes are with you. In my mind it is fine as it is.
 
I liked it. Unfortunatly it's made me think about war again and put me in a bad mood. But I suppose thats good as thats the point.
 
Reminds me of:

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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RPG-D RPGfix
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