Napoleon's horse is drowning in a river.
He chomps at his bit, he foams at the mouth, with terror in his eyes and a man,
For yes, he is still but a man,
Is spurring and shouting and balancing
precariously on a beast flailing and falling,
In a jangle of metal, a squeak of leather, a splash of water,
And a man who calls himself an emperor.
A slayer of a king,
A sword of polished steel,
Hear the sword sing!
The word of Bonaparte,
The mythical man.
With a hand at his heart,
With the other, he demands,
Bleu, blanc, and rouge and the flesh of his countrymen.
Mud, blood and valour is the spirit of war.
The Tricolore is worth dying for.
His language is domination, his horse whinnies loud-
To forget your mortality is to proclaim yourself God.
To look to the horizon is to ignore the present.
To drown your horse is to forget you are still man.
YOU ARE READING
Fleece
PoetryA Poetry Collection I have been experiementing with poetry the last year! The first few pieces are my earlier work, and it does get better the more recent the chapter. Enjoy!
