Migraine

The first gunshot panged across every acre

as the warcry of a thousand giddy generals

seized the shot’s dominance

and monopolized the airwaves.

Their blaring trumpets became sirens of the battlefield

as boats of devoted soldiers sailed towards

their obvious demise eagerly and with pride.

Trenches, inches deep,

were dug into the grey beneath,

escaping the waves of bell whistles and car horns

that echoed incessantly above the lips.

These wars raged on for hours,

but the words that started them

rang louder than any gun or trumpet or scream

Amidst the shots, however,

the strategists come out to play

They create their best plots with the noise around,

so they put up with it day after day.

There's an agony to the art,

but these plans can only be crafted

through the necessity in the middle of the firefight.

And as swiftly as the first flag waved,

the last one burned and the fields were left empty

to prepare for tomorrow’s battle.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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