I, majestic warrior of Trafalgar, convulse in Cathedral tomb

While captivated tourists gaze up the rigging of heroic plinth

To admire your elevated figure –

An enigma to decode.

You flicker like a prayer candle in the fresh Southern breeze,

But it was I who lit the flame.


You indulge in stolen glory.

Gorging on every Victory and fleeting passion shared with my beloved Emma –

Stone cut death: Composed of the same twisted smile and grey

Brittle shell that plasters my corpse.

Oh macabre art! You have no more worth

Than dust of the ocean-spanning Earth.


Fragments of my intrepid existence are scattered like ashes:

I scrunch into contorted carcass,

I resonate in foreign speech of exhausted tour guides,

I waltz in pouring rain and thrive in petrichor,

I echo through hushed prayers,

I glint in your cannonball pupil.


Cravings overpower.

I long to reclaim gentle feeling of deflating lungs,

And piercing adrenaline during broadside shots.

But so do you, ignorant warrior

Numb to the agony of torn flesh

And the relentless burden of defeat.


Counterfeit twin, I fear for your sanity

Eternally encased in threatening, stone vault.

My darkness is pierced by divine light –

Now I kneel at Heaven’s gates, we must bid farewell.

I entrust you with the splendour of Admiral fame,

Take the brass holder with dignity and carry the burden of my flame.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *