And now for something completely different.

I got the urge to write a poem, so here it is. I’ll probably describe the thought process behind it some other time, because I feel like explaining it now would ruin it.

Quick note: “field” is one syllable.

They March

I sit at the window and watch them march past

Their ranks and their columns in field gray and black.

They scorn the mundane as potential denied:

Betrayal of passion, it's Man gentrified;

A man without struggle’s awash in the tide,

So join in the cause — my brother, decide.

We called them salvation and begged them for more;

Who gave them the right? We opened the door.

Our brothers in arms would have hero’s reward;

What blinded our sight? Our honor restored.

I sit by the window and force myself back

From cheering their columns in field gray and black.