I journeyed here not;
But hither I've come,
Seeking what most Men naught.
- A modicum
In the Annals of Naught,
I persevere to find,
A tomb history forgot;
And the interred one,
In equal measure, not often thought.
Yet His inventions we’ve often used;
A memoir unawaringly abused,
That we’ve failed to Self-remind
The toll of War is visceral blind.
Where be this tomb, stony and sun-scorched
That centuries of weather had reigned
And its significance, botched?
Where must one offer a knee,
Or a prayer devout;
Or even a tear, misty?
When should one arise,
When must one, return;
And, set fire the Torch of visceral light,
That humanity can, at once, discern.
