Caeloöpticon I

Sing in me, Muse, the language you require
T’relate the tale of soldiers far from now,
Who fought in seas of reddish-tinted sands,
Under infernal skies, inhuman suns,
And blackest of abysses that exist
To keep the peace and maintain liberty
For their own selves and for their families,
And some who paid the price five hundred score,
Whilst others kept their lives much less disturbed.
I come to you, O Muse, because I am
Unable to invoke this art myself;
As I but mortal man do so exist,
My words can only ever be far worse
Than that which you can craft in simple tracts
Of being, sublime and undisturbed by all
Save facts and figures of reality.
Come, save me, Muse, for what I now require
Is simply clarity of storied thought
And ever vigilance as I now speak
So that my efforts shall not come to naught.

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