Logger Guru;
I’ve sung my war songs,
Written my war poems,
To go alongside Burns –
& Flanders Fields.
Might never see those celtic homelands,
Whilst another motherland remains at war.
Fighting for independence.
Striving to just exist.
Know struggle,
Old Man.
You wanted to go fight,
Even now.
My vows of Pacifism bind my fists –
With fetters stronger,
Than any gauge of steel.
Galvanized spikes,
Fired from railguns.
Crucifix,
Where I remain hung upside down.
Bloody from the wrists.
Briared in barbed wire,
As a crown.
Drinking Diesel,
At last supper.
Valhalla awaits.
Ragnarok.
How sad.
Discipline?
Some things others find difficult –
I find subliminal,
Mastery in mere broadest strokes.
Others common,
I failed to be born with.
Oh Logger Guru,
What can I do with all this pain?
Names.
Places.
Will we ever escape our darkest demons?
War.
Skald.
Beast In The Mists.
Blood Curse?
Feed.
Valhalla Awaits.
