Abyss

He sits in the abyss,
the price of his ways.
A would-be conqueror
now a shivering wretch.

His prison is vast, cavernous,
pits tunnels, molten furnaces,
frozen hollows, rancid streams,
cavities crawling with pestilence.
Things unseen by mortal eyes
stalk the tunnels,
forge new fissures.

The first to see this place,
he repents his mistakes
and all they cost him.
Familial faces drift from memory
along with their disdain
when their son, wrapped in chains,
cast into a rent in the earth,
disappeared from the world.

The demons hunt him underground.
He takes shelter in wretched crevices,
repents and regrets, begs for mercy
from those he betrayed
and those who followed him.

The cold, the fire, the torment
eventually convince him;

Repentance has a sour tang,

vengeance tastes succulent.

Peace

I've felt more responsibility writing this poem than most, and with good reason. To mark the centenary of the Armistice of 1918, here is a poem dedicated to all those who fought and died in the First World War.

Peace

What is left when the guns fall silent?
Broken land, churned and scarred
by machines of destruction,
now a cradle of lost souls.

The missing soldiers rest here,
those who vanished in the gun-smoke,
the shellfire and shell-scream
enveloped by mists of eternity.

Time restores life to this land,
the trees and fields blossom
with leaves and birdsong,
memories forever enshrined.

Poppies bloom over the battlefield
soothing, healing, remembering,
holding every unknown warrior
in their timeless embrace.