DENNIS COSLETT
REBEL HEART.
The Wake
The sweet stench of death I greet. An atmosphere
of gloom, when slid away the draped casket lid,
heavy with pounding heart. So serene was he with
undefeated gaze, the warrior on his face attired
in raven tweed, his eyes gently closed as if asleep,
still, dreaming of freedom. Beside him a silver
dagger unsheathed, glistening beneath the chandelier
lights.
A bouquet of roses, a spray of daffodils, a portrait
of a loved one sealed in eternal darkness- a loved one's
last farewell. A lingering echo of requiem,
the quench of tears as patriots salute. Oh, how
March reeks with its pungent odour of death, a
sullen bell tolls for a troubled heart, who fought
the vacant minds, a reason to lament, whilst traitors
live.
Will our nation ever see his kind again? He who
led our hostile foes on a merry dance, a cuckoo
waltz, this son of destiny with fierce pride, a
patriot brother in bond. Oh, let our ancient
banner snarl its teeth and flutter in the mountain
breeze, and guard the grave where a hero sleeps.
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