Ok, I'm still not retarded yet.

Just when I thought being in the army means mental and intellectual retardation, I found sufficient inspiration and (gasp) smartness to actually churn out a poem! So my lit-y skillzzz are not lost yet. Good.

Written just before the claymore mine demolition live firing exercise (phew a mouthful), inspired by the surroundings there.

Opulence

Nature needs not Swarovski,
she accessorizes sufficiently,
her birch - adorned with morning's earrings
that captures her bounty
in rounded lighting.
Each finger, each sinew,
lit up by a simple dew.
Her dress a vibrant greening,
richer than a tailor's keening
dye; it dies, her dress.
But that's what makes it so alive.

Who needs poufs, when her shy own
fronds and fringes sprout
roundlets of pink - closely, each
formed by the slendest stalk,
tipped by down; ouch. It bites.
So much so for fragile beauty.

She bedecks her veils with curtains of liquid silk,
spun as clear as sunlight,
that covers her earthen expression.
Though,
vampires breed within.

Her reddish hue,
dug up by winches of men.
Her supports,
felled by the hungry, greedy teeth of iron.
Her runnings,
blighted by man's madness machines' running.
Does Man hate her beauty?
Or is it just jealousy?