Death of a Poet

Ha!  I don't choose your death,
Not the kind you threaten with.
 
Who are you and your army,
Isn't the size of you man enough?
 
Does that mean I won't die for you?
I'll go on my own terms thank you,
 
While I keep on doing
What I've always done
 
Since I was a child in the trenches.
That way, when you get one of your
 
Henchmen to do your dirty deed,
To send a metal jacket
 
To my brain when I'm not looking,
When I'm bent over a tree trunk
 
Writing hastily in my field journal,
Doing what keeps me alive
 
And will be the death of me,
Pull the trigger, face-down in the mud
 
In which I stand when it rains
And when it isn't raining.
 
Do what you will with my journal,
You can't lock away the words
 
Or kill all poetry,
You'll only quiet my pain.
 
You will never stop the poets
No matter what the holocaust.
 
So here I am.  I hold my pen aloft
One last time, in utter defiance!