I have seen death laid cold as stone
Cast upon the blackest black of night;
A bane cresting the harbinger’s throne
Hurling hatred like a metallic 1000 yard stare,
To fate in kind dust and bone.

Away; from here I am cut,
Like sullen wheat in a plagued field
And this truth I find is so unfair,
But it is what my weapons of choice yield.

We band of brothers, we march like ants in sand
Against those who march in kind at us;
Despite the heart, despite the hand,
And rise up to defend, fall in the name
To save even the smallest square of land.

© Tom Stanley