by poetrydiary

Not dead, but fled.

Not as in myths of old we stand
together to the last.
Instead an empty hill, bloodless and with trees
and me.

Not stopped, their armies come
with winds, and leaves, and silence.

Not here, my friends and soldiers.
Not now for you;
just me.

Not glory or romance,
no moments, no suspense.
No hope, no history;
just me.

Just me.

And you – not you, for you are
not dead, but fled.

I am, you see
not dead, nor fled,
but me no more.


I wrote a poem about a last stand some years ago, when I felt my company was about to fail (I was wrong). I feel I understand the reality somewhat better now.