Some might argue that this garbage ain't poetry, and I agree it's not much good, but,
according to everyone's favourite unreliable source of knowledge, Wikipedia:
Poetry is a form of literature that uses aesthetic and rhythmic qualities of language to evoke meanings in addition to,
or in place of, the prosaic ostensible meaning.
Which makes this technically actually poetry, despite not meaning it's any good at all, really.
The East Wind,
A front-line letter
My loving Emily,
I am afraid this is my last letter to you,
for we are the last remaining of our
squadron, with no rounds to spare.
As I write these words, the last of our
bretheren pass into eternal sleep, we are
now only three of living souls.
Until morning, we shall be none, and
will join our ancestors in their eternal vigil
for our people.
We were ambushed, deep in the siberian
taiga, worse than ever before. So we dug,
through bodies and brass, blood, and lead.
No matter the aspects we capitalise
on on, they keep coming. We have our
last, the last ambush scheduled by
0300, and so we pray to save
our souls, for our earthly vigil's
swift end, and external vigil's start.
And by the lord, Emily, warn everyone.
Warn them, that the East wind is coming, and
it can't be stopped.
For the best of times,
Get this in
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