I sat on a pole
Held aloft
Under the sweltering sun
Of the rotting waste
Of the battlefield below me

I looked out of a telescope
Harangued by flies
Gnawed at by hunger
Smacked in the chest with despair

I scan the horizon
Looking for anything that moves
Hoping for rescue
Fearing more attack
From my lofty perch
I can avoid most of the perils
Of the decay of war
But I make a handy target for arrows
Or any muck someone might want to throw

There is something coming, I see it moving
Slowly and steadily it comes towards me
I take out my scroll
And my precious bottle of ink
There are plenty of buzzard and crow feathers
With which to make a new quill

I sit down
upon my perch
Listening to the sounds of death
and write about the battle
I am the only one to have survived
The trust is mine to tell their story
Survivors guilt makes the ink
Thick with survivors guilt
As I form each letter with great care
On the only scroll I still have
The form grows larger
My fate no more sure
Than any other mortal
On my pole overlooking
The charnal pit that holds my family and friends

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