It's never the hard won battle,
Or the glorious victory
But the slender slim fingered hand
That holds the pen that signs the paper.
The Golden Eagle, those talons,
That dug into the flesh of the enemy
Was only momentary, a distant nightmare
Of sleepless nights, sweating, muttering.
Of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
Twitching jerky movements that haunts
Every moment awake with sweaty dread.
The anti-depressants rattling inside.
Now only the slim fingers that signed the paper
That stopped the fighting, that ends the war.
Those fingers never twitched in anger
Never touched other human flesh or a gun.
Fingers now holding the pen resting on the paper.
Flowing ink, not rifles firing bullets,
That stopped the fight. Those fingers
From small weak sloping shoulders
That fails to find any tears to shed.
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Comments about this poem (Armistice by David Wood )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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