Skirmish

In the realms of the border,
the bones of the armed, shudder.

with every passing second
with every passing plane
the hope of a truce,in him, shall mutter.

seek he did, the nourished soul,
to live fast and die young

the utter tenacity, to wait.
who shall tell him,
that truce may never come

the tattle is not of armistice, quietude.
the tattle is that of blood and earth.

the pure action of armament
shall foresee the dusk
but who shall tell him,
that dawn may never come.

In the Exam Hall

I sat in the hall,
I thought I'd have a ball.

I twisted my pen and scratched my nose ^© ,
to find a logic or reason to write.

I looked around in awe or disgust,
as everyone wrote with out a fuss.

I am fated to pretend,
in this studious class of mine.

When my mind of knowledge is enchanted with rust,
my memory i cannot trust.

In the end, my paper stood out alone and blank,
As my hopes of passing slowly sank....

-Rohan
(3 sep 2010)