About the Poem
This poem is about war. It was written in the late sixties, during a specific war, with specific enemies, but you'll find nary a mention of either. This war was one I knew, a war history tells us was less noble than others, though I strongly suspect it was little different from wars before or after it.
This poem is about death. Not simply the death of ideals, which war always brings in its wake, nor even about the death of lives. It is, rather, about the death of souls.
|by Ron Carnell|
Eye after eye searched my soul,
Pit after pit, hole within hole.
He cast my lot where his had been:
The quagmire of Devilshon has struck again.
More horrors than horrors can ever tell,
Tell the horrors that within the quagmire dwell.
Their suction breathes hold bones untold,
Dreary and weary, and ever so cold.
Lives that held those bones to form
Made into horrors, horrors that swarm
Dreary and weary over the one:
And so it is, the quagmire of Devilshon.
Weary are the bones in the dread quagmire,
By the shores of Devilshon, in the land of Hellfire.
Dreary and weary, the men still die;
Wives and children try not to cry.
For the play plays on and on and on:
Men lose their souls to the quagmire of Devilshon.