A boy with a hatchet, a tree and an arm

A boy with a hatchet, a tree and an arm

tied taut to his alibis, for he meant her no harm,

for he knew she would soon, let her branches grow free

but for the time he might rest his eyes in the sea.

With a rust covered anchor and an ax at his side,

his boat would hold steady, through the oncoming tide

as the tree would grow taller and the foxes would dance

the boy thought it folly and scoffed at the chance.

But the boy would grow lonely, and the tree would also rot

Clink! Clink! went his anchor, and away float his yacht.

But now the tree missed the boy she'd once loved,

away, floats his body, away floats her love.

Go Fish

The pouring rain that ran down my face

provided a cover for the tears

I was at an unfamiliar place

to visit someone who I had once known so well.

Deep gashes scarred his wrist

as well as my mind.

I was light headed as he got closer

we hugged, I held on tight.

Go fish had never been so disturbing

I wanted to scream

why would you do this?

But I couldn't.

Instead I held all of the emotion

In the lump in my throat

that burned as I attempted to hold back the tears.

I choked on my words

and when a tear escaped

I quickly wiped it, so no one saw.

I wanted him to come home

to erase everything that had happened

But it wouldn't ever be that easy.

It was not something a 12 year old would forget.

The memories of the past years felt like a lie

chasing him through the tall feathery grass

in the warm summers sun

was a thought impossible to grasp.

How did he end up here

such a carefree boy that once

I had looked up to and wanted to be just like.

I had been wrong, I did not want to be like him.

I was let down

unable to fully understand

why this would happen to someone

who was so loved and talented.

Come Fall

Your blue eyes twirled with sea foam

Bore into mine as we lay

Each of us knowing

As the other sputters to say.

Though words cannot allege

The purity of what is felt

As we lay beneath this blanket

Holding not a shed of doubt

And someday this will change

When the leaves turn to gold

We'll be left with only memories

I'll have your t-shirt left to hold

But for now all's okay

As long as we don't remove the mask

And don't let slip the words

We're both terrified to ask

Performance

My mother needed a new heart but

believed it could wait.

After all, it was my first dance recital

and I dreamed of my own spotlight.

Dressed up in shiny sequins, I imagined I would sashay

across the stage, shining grin

wave wildly to my mom in the front row

who would feel too proud to be sick.

My mother sent out the invitations as if it were

our wedding, asked for RSVPs by mail.

My grandmother came that day,

the one who later brought me to her house

fed me Wheaties and asked me to finish every speck

so I would stay big and strong even if

my mother did not.

In the end, my mother failed.

wrote the wrong time down by two hours so when we arrived,

my spotlight had already been

turned out. We have the photos,

my mother and I

stand with mascara rivers running through our

frozen smiles. We were experts in make-believe

almost convinced of our own

happy ending.

Differences

Whenever I try to focus
my mind whirls with a collection of colors and words and music
but when I try to think,
nothing happens.

I guess I've never been one for following directions
I've never been one to work well on command
because when I try to think,
nothing happens.

Nothing.
Like everything in front of me doesn't exist
Like nothing in front of me hasn't really been there
Like the world has twisted up into a tight, tangled ball
of unkempt shoelaces and forgotten hopes.
And so I do,
Nothing.

A Poem on Poems

I was told to put up a poem,

Our souls, she said, we should show 'em,

“To Science!” I said,

And into my head,

Popped thoughts of xylem and phloem.

Yet, a poem 'bout science is boring,

And this poem-thing I am deploring,

So my poem will

Explain how I feel,

And use lim'rick, to keep you from snoring.

I did try to write it last week,

But at TV I did take a peek,

And my poem did not

Get written a lot,

I'll admit, my chances seemed bleak.

Then I did try to write it last night,

But The Simpsons sure put up a fight,

And all that I did

Though my mother forbid,

Was sit around (to my delight).

Though I surely do prefer this fate,

To the thought of making this great,

So bear with me here,

As I won't adhere,

To the style that makes me irate.

She told me to show off my soul.

I think I accomplished that goal.

For my soul is full of

All of the above.

Though this wasn't too bad, on the whole.

My Best Friend

My goodnight kisser when I'm tucked under the covers,

my story-teller when I need help falling asleep,

my cheerleader when I'm trying my hardest,

and my motivator when I'm not.

My shoulder to lean on when tears drip down my rosy cheeks,

my lover when I'm empty, feeling like no one is there,

my buddy to laugh with when I want to share a joke,

and my inspiration to be strong.

You're the one that always raised me to be an independent and polite little girl,

you're the hand I reach for to pull me up when I can't lift off the ground,

you're the voice that scolds my mistakes and

and the voice that encourages my goals.

I love you for the long drives you make to my sporting events,

I love you for when you have to put up with my stubbornness,

I love you for the dinner you make me every night,

and I love you for giving me life.

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin,

And the two red lines my cat engraved on my hand

And the bruise that blossomed from my abrupt encounter with a protruding wall,

And the inky black smudge that my pen left behind,

And the long slender scar that curls around my right arm,

A fading reminder of multiple bicycle collisions into the mailbox,

Which now slumps, permanently, to one side

Marking the entrance of the house where we

No longer live.

My battered skin conceals my heart and

My unblemished memories.

By Sara Martin

A Fall to Remember

Sprinting as fast as my 2 year old legs can carry me.

Running and running without a care.

My mother is behind me, telling me to slow down.

She tries to hold me back, but I slip away.

Because I'm 2 years old and running,

And nothing can stop me now.

Around the corner I turn,

Face to face with the stairs.

Without a look back I charge down.

Missing the first step,

Missing the second.

Screaming as I fall.

Tumbling, tumbling,

All the way down.

Wood strikes my face.

My knees are hit next.

My face bounces once again.

Then my back takes its turn.

Head over heels I tumble,

Unable to see the ground.

Falling and falling,

All the way down.

The granite floor comes up quickly.

My mother is speechless with fear.

Slowly I crawl to my feet.

Looking around I laugh.

Somehow I arise unscathed.

Once more I'm 2 years old and running,

And nothing can stop me now.

Oh, the Insanity

If insanity

=

repetition of the

same

action

with the

expectation of

different results

I must be

crazier than most.

Waking up

every day

at

5

freaking

30

(or later if I'm unlucky)

expecting not to be tired

expecting to wake up

whistling and happy

like those cartoons-

the fact that that doesn't happen

must prove my insanity.

Going to school

expecting to do well

expecting to be acknowledged by my classmates

must be complete insanity

because

none of that transpires.

Running to work

expecting people to be friendly and tolerant

expecting to be energetic and to perform my tasks

completely and expertly

follows the definition of being unhinged.

But I feel quite normal

not crazy at all.

Maybe,

just maybe,

I'm not the crazy one.

Maybe it's everyone else who's

lost it.

Maybe

because I'm happy sometimes

there isn't anything bad about being

a little nuts.

Toy Soldier

Out of the sea and the sand

Crawled what was left of a man.

Arms and legs all were intact,

But weighed down by the burden he bore on his back,

He crawled amongst tufts of high grass

While the breeze pierced his flesh like sharp glass.

But he knew if he stopped he would die,

For such was his fate if he did not even try.

He was merely a pawn in a game,

Played by generals or gods without names.

The boy had no mind of his own

And into the world he crawled all alone.

Left behind bloody fields of gore,

Left behind remnants of war.

He was drawn from the fighting by love,

Drawn by a figure who called from above.

“Put down your gun and your pack,

Worry not of the coming attack.”

A goddess, beautiful and bright,

Revealed to him a path that led out of sight.

The smoke and the din were too much,

So the boy dropped the weapon he clutched,

And on his hands and his knees,

He crawled from the ocean of men to the trees.

But the boy had been deceived,

For a final dead end he perceived.

The goddess had led him astray,

He'd been led down a road and by love was betrayed.

The remnants of this beaten boy

Were only but parts of a toy.

The broken toy soldier became

Part of the earth from whence he came.

Beneath the Outside Apperance

Underneath my shirt is my skin,
underneath my skin is my heart,
underneath my heart are all those little memories no one else cares to see.
Those seemingly infinitesimal details,
boring to others, but priceless to me.

Laughing until my sides were sore and tears dripped from my eyes,
I don't even remember why,
some of the funniest moments can arise out of utter randomness.
Standing in a parking lot, or curled up in a sleeping bag
Speaking in our own little humorous language,
nobody else would understand the logic, or lack there of
but all those days, nights, and countless hours spent together
We understand the craziness, the silences, the hilarious laughter.

Reflections of the young scandalous joy friday nights brought,
nothing exceptional occurred,
other than the fact that bedtimes were disregarded!
Those late summer nights after dinner,
when we all heard the ice cream truck crawling down the road.
All we needed was a glance to mom and dad and a slight nod,
and we were bounding out the door.

Watching practiced hands glide across the key board,
where a simply knowledge of pizza preference illuminated a smile,
like it was the most meaningful gesture in the world.
Countless stories were told,
and I became fully aware of where I got that quality from!
Seeing a Christmas Tree Shop bag grasped in a hand,
completely aware that we are about to get some random gift we will never use,
but it means the world to her,
so we smile and claim we love it.

Underneath my shirt is my skin,
underneath my skin is my heart,
and underneath my heart are the people, the experiences, the memories
all the things I will never let go,
all the things my heart could not bear to lose.

Mourning

The larking daylight swings on pitched eaves.

My eyes are like honey bees.

Eastern oil smeared canvas.

Sailing up the golden

boughs. A beginning.

The living daylight. The,

Living, daylight.

Coursing, pulsing, vital, daylight.

Touched by melodious supple honey,

I am alive.

Yet beneath me there is no light.

Beneath me there is no rise.

I stand on a tomb.

A bivouac of decay.

Lifeless forms sheltering

the colony queen;

the mother.

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin,

Underneath that is my heart.

Underneath my heart is the way you told me that this would pass by too, someday,

But for now it is just the way it is.

Underneath that is the way you look at me, when you know just what I would really like to say,

Because you know how I actually feel is different from what I say.

Underneath that is how I've never fooled you with even a white lie,

Because you've known me for too long not to see straight through.

Underneath that is the way you've never turned my tears away,

Even when they become too much for you to deal with.

Underneath that is your constant forgetfulness,

But also the way you always check in at the end of the day.

Underneath that is how I fail, every time, to remain angry and withhold my forgiveness from you,

Because you have been my constant all these years and I couldn't bear to give that up.

Finished

The lights gleam down,

Creating a presence that is incomparable.

The grass is freshly cut,

Simply for the next 48 minutes.

The crowd screams, chants, and groans,

Each moment of the game.

The opposite factions collide with equal ferocity,

Leaving each other in pain,

masked by adrenaline.

Yet,

Once the grass stops being kicked up from dirty spikes,

Once the red-faced screams from coach end,

Once the swearing under breath ceases,

Once the bruises and broken bones heal,

The lights are dimmed,

The grass is left untamed,

The crowd is silenced.

The game I lived for is finished.

Off

Underneath my heart is the sun, peeking through expectant windows into my closed eyes,

And like that I am off.

Off out of my bed, sprinting barefoot like a dog just out of a cage,

Off to the kitchen, where a breakfast of crispy frosted flakes is consumed within seconds,

Off through the dewy lawn followed by the panting, elderly hound, grass sticking in between my toes,

Off sprinting down the 124 stairs, finding the speed just before a fall would be inevitable,

Off to the beach, the sand greeting my toes like a long lost friend, clutching a neon bucket and a desire to unearth any crustacean that makes itself visible to me.

Off before my brothers, trailing behind with shouts of “wait up!”

Off to the rocks, not minding the smell of low tide,

Off like a shot, to the first rock I see, swiping aside the damp seaweed in search of my first prize.

Off goes the covering of my first capture as his claws spring up in a defense mechanism that I could surely break.

Off through the air, then the sand, then the shell, my hand grasps the feisty young crab, the first of the year.

Where Were You?

Where were you when,

I was only a toddler,

my mother was still a child,

and I was now my grandmother's youngest?

Where were you when,

I was seven years old,

and all of my friends went to the father daughter dance,

and I watched?

Where were you,

when my mother was married,

to a man that would rather use his fists

than his words?

Where were you,

when, we had to turn to the police,

because you were not there to help us,

to protect us?

Where were you,

when my mother went through a divorce,

and I was left without a father,

again?

Where were you,

when she remarried to an addict,

who would rather care about his addiction,

then us?

Where were you,

when threatening phone calls,

would wake us in the night,

and we had to change the locks?

Where were you when he sued us,

because he felt entitled,

and we lost,

everything?

Where were you,

when I was 12 years old and,

my baby sisters were screaming in their cribs,

but no one was there except me?

Where were you,

during divorce number two,

and I was left to explain what happened

to the world?

Where were you,

as I stood in the bathroom mirror,

practicing a fake smile,

so no one would know?

Where were you when,

I knelt by my bed,

hands clasped, whispering prayers,

so no one would hear but you?

Where were you,

Because I was right here,

forever loyal and forever forgiving,

but where were you God?

How It Will Always Be

Who would use a storage bin cover

as an actual storage bin cover

when it'd be much better used as a diving board off the coach?

Why would the neighbors give us weird looks

for tying each other to a chair in any sort of rope we could find

to see how long it would take to get out?

Anything and everything that we imagined suddenly became a vital task.

We complimented each other perfectly;

He drew, I colored.

He slayed dragons in his video game, I cheered him on.

He was the fearless superhero, I was his handy sidekick,

keeping his Magic cards in order as he battled a friend.

Mornings we'd have our breakfast together,

wrapped up in our warm blankets with only our faces poking out.

After school we'd stay out working on our snow forts until we ran out of light

then return in the warm house for some Cocoa Crunchies and our favorite T.V. show.

This is how it was.

Now every so often he'll drive down from school,

give a quick “hey” and then return to his computer to talk to people

who he'd much rather be with.

The short conversations we have turn into arguments,

and the silence is again instilled.

The way it used to be between us seems to be from a different life.

This is how it seems.

But when my dog died, who was there for me to cry on? My brother.

When I was playing in a state senior all star volleyball match, something that meant so much to me, who had driven hours to be there in the stands? My brother.

One of his rare phone calls home to humor our mother

turning into an hour and a half conversation with me.

Having him come up behind me out of the blue after not talking for hours and picking me up, carrying me through the house, and throwing me on the couch, then just walking away.

Though it seems at times we are complete strangers,

the random little things he does reminds me how it truly is, how though some things have changed,

he's still the brother who used to sacrifice his body to protect me from flying snowballs in a battle against our neighbors.

Missed

Well his duties have lightened,

and his presence diminished

No more favors, no more late night rides

No more cheering & yelling at my big games

A constant reminder that he's not present

when his number flashes across the phone

No more goodnight kisses & no more family dinners

Although not present, he's still dependable

The kisses are replaced with phone calls

and the hugs replaced with emails

He asks how my week is, soccer, school and mom

I ramble on about everything he has missed

A late night call, a monthly visit, a long email

Make it harder no to acknowledge his absence

He asks me if I miss him and lump grows in my throat

I conjure up “YES” and quickly change the subject

Pictures and memories make it even harder to not miss

but his responsibilities are across the ocean

His love has never faded,

but his presence surely has.

Underneath My Heart Are My Memories

Underneath my shirt is my skin,

Underneath my skin is my heart,

Underneath my heart are memories only I know,

The engulfing stillness under water,

Broken at the surface by the sun's warming radiance,

And shrill screams from excited cousins splashing in the pool,

Shrill screams from the stands for the winning goal,

The chilly night air sliced by the steaming hot cocoa,

A comforting embrace to chase away the shivers,

An embrace by the boy lifting me on stage,

Scarfs and heavy down coats, save the seats in the audience,

This ballet is the true magic of my Christmas,

Like magic, lifeless winter melts as a rich green returns,

April showers bring May flowers and a new found happiness,

Loving happy, lazy days, while sleeping on the back deck.

Underneath my heart is concern,

Already missing, reminiscing, the moments I know,

Underneath my heart is love,

Adoration for the trivial instants that passed without thought,

Underneath my heart is hope,

Things won't change, they can only get better.

Underneath my heart is knowing,

Life goes on, I can't stop time from flowing.

Campfire

I can remember standing on the rocky gravel,

over the popping,

crackling fire.

The smoke rising,

blue and think,

drifting up from the leaping flames,

filling our eyes and nostrils.

My sister and I put on our goggles

from our 7 am swim classes at the lake,

so the smoke wouldn't sting our eyes as we stood over dancing flames.

The fire was hot against our gangly little legs,

all scabbed over,

from scratching bug bites,

and climbing trees.

My dad had let me help chop the kindling,

I was seven,

He said Lindsey was too young to use the axe,

but he let me.

He had just gotten up to camp tonight,

I had been up all week.

We were going on the boat in the morning,

but tonight we were just going to sit around the fire until we began to nod off...

I can draw exit signs in the dark

I can draw exits signs

In the dark.

I can’t draw them while I’m in the dark, what I mean to say is that

I can draw exit signs that are in the dark.

I’m also pretty good at drawing the dark.

But nobody gets it when I draw exit signs in the dark,

They just laugh at my art and say

“Those are just red block letters

Against a black background.”

My 4th grade art teacher asked if

Maybe I’d like to draw my exit sign

Not in the dark.

Hey lady, I’m trying to make something timeless.

Don’t you get it?

I can’t draw exit signs not in the dark because

I can’t really draw anything not in the dark

And nobody wants to look at or think about some 4th grader’s

Ugly exit sign not in the dark

Because when was the last time anybody gave a crap

About an exit sign not in the dark?

Why do you need the sign if its not in the dark?

Just look for the exit.

And besides its not about the exit or really even the dark

It’s about only seeing that.

So if I draw something else, it’s not about only seeing that, is it?

That winter, my mom drove me into the city

With all the brown building and the shiny stuff covered in grime

And took me to the back door at city hall,

Yelled at me to “go now or hold it” and then started

Helping me get into a ridiculous Victorian era costume

So I could go in front of 1,900 people

And do what I practiced doing earlier that year

And perform.

I had to show people my art.

As I walked out and turned towards those 1,900 people,

It felt better to know that I had expertly painted

Big bold strokes of dark on top of 1,900 faces.

Seeing as how it came out so well,

I kept drawing the dark over everything else I could think of.

The only thing I left were some red block letters

Showing me the way out if I needed it, which I didn’t.

I felt great in the dark with my exit sign,

And I can draw an exit sign in the dark for you

But you probably won’t get it unless you’ve been

Drawn to that exit into darkness.

Oink

Isn’t that funny?

My nose feels runny.

Whatever shall I do?

For my forehead is hot

While my pot-belly rots,

I coming down with the swine flu.

The nurse asks politely

If I’m feeling unsightly

But I say “I think I’m fine, ma’am.”

But this is no fun,

This H1N1,

For I’ve lost my liking for ham.

I’m turning to pink

This really stinks.

Is this what swine flu is about?

Now I have a tail

As I start to wail

For its getting harder to breathe through my snout.

Oh I am forsaken!

I’ll be made into bacon!

My rump roasted, or sliced into steak!

I run to my sty

While tears roll down my eye,

And to think this flu starts with an ache!

I’m stuck eating slop.

Oh, when will this stop?

My time as a kid’s been cut short!

What will people do

When they ask “What’s wrong with you?”

And I say back “Oink-ity snort”?

Consolation Prize

Underneath my heart is the quiet moment

when he asked me what's really wrong,

the time after my mother has left for work

and he offers to sit down and talk

while I hide my unsteady voice

between gulps of seltzer and spoonfuls of lucky charms.

Underneath that is his I'm sorry

for not saying I love you every night,

an apology for allowing a little girl to run up the stairs

to burrow herself in a cocoon of sheets

in order to synthesize a hug.

Underneath that is my inability to hate him for even a moment.

Bonaparte

On marches young Bonaparte,

no ounce of trepidation in his heart.

Royalists rioting in the streets of Paris,

Bonaparte mans the barricades and

with a whiff of grapeshot, conquers the mob.

Across the gallic Alps he goes,

The colors of the Revolution in hand,

Just as the Punic General from so long ago,

strides Bonaparte into the Ausonian land.

On the bank of the River Adda,

le petit caporal directs his battery;

bombards the opposing battlements;

orders the crossing. Seeing the advance

of the carbines, the Hapsburgs flee.

Reinforced and resupplied, Mantua under siege he puts.

With Alvinczi he duels at the Bridge of Arcole,

Astounding all, Bonaparte, grabbing the trifold,

takes to the bridge, and with his troops

the bridge, they hold.

Near Rivoli, Bonaparte scales the heights

and blasts the dragoons, who turn in flight.

Here Danubian rule in Italy, the French overthrow.

To Vienna the routed Austrians go.

In Egypt, land of the Mamelukes,

Conquering Bonaparte, in desert sands he must now contend,

While Murad and his Mamelukes come north along Nile's bend,

Bonaparte orders the advance.

The enemy, outdated in weaponry stand no chance.

The Mamelukes charge with no forewarning

Bonaparte observing, forms his squares,

catching his enemy unawares,

and in the shadows of the Pyramids he declares

Victory over the Egyptian lands.

1804, The Emperor with his Grande Armée

are challenged by the Hapsburgs again.

At Ulm The Emperor, outflanks his enemy,

surrounds the Austrian host, capturing General Mack.

At Austerlitz three emperors meet. Bonaparte

against Francis and Alexander. The Emperor deceives

his enemies and weakens his right;

the Russo-Austrians spring his trap,

deploying their combined armies' might,

hoping to turn The Emperor away in flight,

The enemy distracted, Bonaparte seizes the day;

sends his troops in the center into the fray

He overcomes the Allies, their weak center struck and conquered.

One sharp blow and the war is over.

1806, the Fourth Coalition rallies against The Emperor.

Bonaparte rallies his army against Prussia.

At the Battles of Jena-Auerstädt

Bonaparte wins dual victories,

defeating Prussia, conquering its armies.

At Wagram again The Emperor defeats his Austrian foes.

Over the River Danube to surround the Hapsburgs

Bonaparte hooks 'round the left flank

and pins their soldiers on the River's bank.

1811, the fateful year.

Bonaparte still without fear

of defeat invades the Russian lands,

the fate of the Empire

no longer lies in his hands.

'Cross the Nieman,

swiftly to Vilnius.

Smolensk, the gateway to Moscow,

defenders routed, reserves despoiled,

Bonaparte enters and fire is set to the city.

Kutuzov and the Russian retreat; the earth is scorched:

crops, bridges burn.

On the Smolensk Road, into the heart of Russia, goes Bonaparte.

Borodino

Here Bonaparte and Kutuzov will meet,

Here Bonaparte will suffer his greatest defeat,

Here Kutuzov holds the heights,

With Bagration in the center and Barclay on the right.

Bonaparte orders the attack on Shevardino,

the anchor of Kutuzov's left.

Murat leads and with Davout's support

their cavalry deliver a charge so deft,

the redoubt falls, the bloody start to a bloody battle.

Bonaparte moves, assaulting the center,

ignoring the weakness in Kutuzov's line.

Now with Bagration's flèches he must encounter,

The French artillery begin, a devastating salvo

bombards the Russian regiments,

Davout advances, leading the attack,

to take the flèches and push the Russians back

the Russian retreat, overwhelmed.

Bagration rallies his men and retakes his namesakes,

back and forth the flèches and redoubt sway;

Desperate Bagration calls upon Barclay

to reinforce his position.

The rattle of musketry and the boom of artillery

pervade the field; by smoke the flèches are obscured,

Confused French and Russian infantry meet;

the slaughter is total.

Reeling, the Russian are forced to retreat

to the Raevsky redoubt.

Bonaparte gives the command,

the guns are brought to bear,

the bombardment begins,

the redoubt falls.

At the end of the day,

Bonaparte has not accomplished his plans

the Russian army still stands,

not routed, not annihilated;

Borodino was not Bonaparte's Cannae.

Victorious Kutuzov must retreat,

Moscow is abandon.

Bonaparte approaches and enters the city,

Moscow is captured.

the Armée arrives,

Moscow is pillaged.

Autumn envelopes Russia,

Moscow is burned.

Winter comes, the Russian army returns,

Bonaparte, endangered, is forced to retreat.

On the Smolensk Road, out from the heart of Russia, goes Bonaparte.

All Russia rises against him, led by Winter himself.

Kutuzov gives chase, convincing Bonaparte to hasten his pace.

The cold and the Cossacks and disease harass his column,

reducing the once Grande Armée

to a vestige of its former self.

'Cross the Nieman,

out of the Russian lands goes Bonaparte.

Beaten, Bonaparte returns to France

to regroup and rearm,

Whilst all Europe rises in his wake,

Russia, Austria, Prussia, Sweden, Britain, Spain and Portugal

unite against him.

The Emperor invades the Confederation.

At Leipzig all nations join in battle,

surrounding The Emperor.

Bonaparte holds his ground fighting fiercely,

but cannot break the Allied line.

Their massive numbers withstand his assault

and return the attack. Bonaparte's reign is over,

it is only a matter of time.

In the dead of night, Bonaparte and his army

flee over the Elbe, seeking safe soil.

The Allied Nations purse, trapping The Emperor in France.

His final efforts are for naught,

The Emperor is exiled to Elba.

The Hundred Days,

Bonaparte returns to cheers:

Vive l'empèreur!

A new army is raised,

the Coalition is formed,

Bonaparte is outlawed,

They meet at Waterloo.

Bonaparte begins, launching his attack,

to separate the Anglo-Prussian armies.

British heavy horse counter, driving the French back,

The Allies press on the assault,

shattering Bonaparte's flanks.

Desperate, The Emperor commits his final reserves,

the undefeated Imperial Guard take to the field,

throwing the British back. Wellington responds

with bayonet he assails the once stedfast guard

and breaks their resolve.

Bonaparte's army is gone,

Bonaparte is defeated.

To St Helena as an exile he is sent,

left to forever ponder what could have been...

Vive l'empèreur! Viva l'imperatore!