When can I write lines of rhyme,
of life and death and space and time,
of cause and effect and good and bad,
of cowards and the courage they should have had?
Where is the right and wrong today,
hidden well in shades of gray,
a casualty of war, it's said,
where poppies grow among the dead?..
How can I sit here all alone
and think of kings upon a throne
who die before their natural time
in battles glorious and sublime?
Why do poets feel the need
to soak the paper as they bleed,
to be remembered when they die...
when and where and how and why?