It was a comfortable world
The table in that small attic
The old fountain pen and pad
My happy world of limerick.
His war, somehow my crusade
So read the king’s summon
In the name of God I marched
Got a shield, a shiny weapon.
Those I slayed in the day, the dead
Returned at night in my nightmares
Did nothing, said nothing, just stared
Couldn’t sleep once in so many years.
I earned my freedom, end of my war
Took a final look around while falling
Peace at last! And I had to travel far
Back to my attic, it has been calling.
The Attic
Nearly Poetry 