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Slaves

One of my dreams is to have something I've written published. I've submitted a number of poems to a poetry magazine, but all of them have been rejected. This was my latest effort, which I learned today was rejected, too. Structured poetry seems to have lost its allure ever since Robert Frost passed. Free verse is more popular today. The poem I submitted today was a free verse poem. Maybe I'll have more luck with that one. Anyway, this one isn't too bad, though the first stanza could be clearer. If you can understand the meaning behind the poem, then I've improved! That's all that matters, I suppose, to grow and see improvement. I think this poem reflects that for me.

Beyond the distance chasms wide
Rest battles’ long-since counted cost
Whose soldiers’ souls now left for lost
Lie locked alone to wait release

From forth their tortured silent state
Their calls for final rest ring loud
Above the din of busied crowd
Both heard and shunned from memory

‘Til quickly summoned from their graves
They’re charged to serve as ghostly slaves
To fight anew by force of will
Under masters’ scorn

On such occasions some then turn
And face the drivers’ well-worn whip
Whispering soft and sullen quip,
“Who’s master, you or I?”

Their masters, sick of absent peace,
Return the souls to fleeting rest
They feign to learn within their breast
These lessons learned from Sky

Beyond the distant deep divide
Sit sullen masters steeped in pride
Whose swollen souls have long-since died
Becoming what their hearts have made.
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