A Modern Sonnet for Wilfred Owen

A young boy whose best days are posthumous.
You’ll recognise his face in Oswestry.
An artist’s life cut short by Armistice.
His name inscribed on signs in Shrewsbury.
Beside the church, where he had major doubts.
Read his work, the words going ballistic.
When will we all heed his graphic accounts,
Instead of using kids as statistics?

I never knew the true horrors of war,
Pressures you were under from family.
Maybe the problem was society.
But I will learn and think clearly before
A veteran’s hand I refuse to shake.
Like a pacifist hasn’t made mistakes.

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