Those brave battalions, who like this poet, now lie dead.

 

Self- muted from within on the sharp quiet of polite.

I garrotted my own belly, with the fullness of my  knife.

I have fired on my own men, who died selflessly and right

Their bodies heaped and moldering, along a rigid line  too tight. 

 Like wordless sentries under  fallen walls- the place my soul now drowns

Spinning to it's  under verse,  I have pulled my fortress down  MB