The Poetry Of Chris Alden
   
 
The Civil War Battle

Guns in hands, flags in arms, these men walk, and with each stride, another man realizes another man died, this game we call a global confrontation, is merely another tragic piece of misinformation, as these soldiers near the enemy now, they wonder in amazement that this land has could changed so much, how? These men with their swords drawn gasping for breath, as nearer and nearer they come to death, the blood and screaming, they must be dreaming, for every gunshot is twice as loud, for every patriot is twice as proud, as these men scramble to stay alive, from this scene pure terror is derrived, and for the men who did survive, the knowledge of victory will be their prize, but that is nothing but many lies, for the men there, they dropped like flies.



The Drunkard

In this world of nice and mean, the drunkard lay on the alley hardly unseen, who's prying eyes could see so vaugly, whos thoughts were so very heavy with contempt, this drunk who had been exempt by public, now lay on the ground to enter another night of sorrow, as the hours tick by on the old tower clock, as the stores they attach to their doors a lock, so this man, this drunken beast, cannot harm the merchandise in the very least, as he lay with a bottle of scotch in hand, this man, he lighted his soul with fear as he settles down in this vast London land.



The Urchin

The street urchin roams throughout this land, sometimes travelling in a band, he who knows no fear, who is drunk off beer, who's mind is afire, who is just a liar, trouble is his middle name, he likes his street name all the same, who settles in abondoned buildings and such, who loves this life of crime very much, the urchin settles down in London tonight, to be greeted tommorow by the friendly light.







Thank You for reading my poems. If you have any questions or comments, PLEASE E-mail me at the E-mail link at the bottom of the screen. Thanks!
 
 
 
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