The Battle of Izetbegovic (Trochaic Octameter) by Mike Williams 02/03/2016 @ 7:17 P.M.

I awoke from a dream where long I stood still, 
And images of a bloody battlefield. 
Bodies strewn for as far as the eye could see, 
Lifeless as litter and many men deep. 
Arrows amid the jumble tipped black as pitch, 
Over the battlements and uniform stitch. 
My body quivered and shook and couldn't be still, 
As I observed over that battlefield. 

Alone was I standing in the pungent air so still, 
No life to be found on that battlefield. 
The scent of death brought my eyes to weep, 
As I stumbled over the bodies stacked steap. 
The fletching of arrows seemed oddly eldritch, 
Frozen I stood gazing in some state of bewitch. 
A strange eerie mist arose silently lingering still, 
As I crossed lonely that fearful battlefield.

Once the cannons blazed now broken and still, 
Turned brother against brother on a battlefield. 
A tale that generations will retell and ever keep, 
And brave daring men in their eternal rest sleep. 
Now monuments and a verdant grassy ditch, 
Marking the place and the battle of Izetbegovic. 
A twisted independance dream died in that still, 
And all that remains is an empty battlefield.