It is whispered from the Tongues of Angels that,

In the Hour of the Poet-General's Assassination,

Ordered, in haste, by his Superiors,

As his Time drew unstoppable and near,

The wish possessed his Free, Commanding Mind,

To wander forth, through the Battlefields,

Wherever make War,

The Rival Empires of Human-kind:

Just as he had wandered, from Life to Life,

Within the Souls of Soldiery and Stratego, passed.

Then, strayed Patton, the Poet, once more,

In his Comatose Dreams,

By Rome and fallen Carthage's ancient sands;

Paddled against the great Salt-Sea's Bloody streams,

He stood in the Macedonian's Oracle-caves:

Where, Great Alexander's humble Demise,

Was, too late, fore-seen;

Walked with the Spartan Hoplite, gaunt and stark,

Into the Hot Gates of Hades,

Even the blood-gutted Bosch,

Once a gory and mighty Foe,

Did, with General Patton, clasp hands, palm in palm,

In High and golden Valhalla.

How could he Rest in Peace?

Even in Life, The General trod,

The Threshold of those Deathly Realms,

To most Men Unknown;

Already, from the Pearly Throne of God,

A beam of Light, upon his Camouflaged Fatigues,

And matted, Chin-Strapped Helmet,

Shimmering, shone:

Shone, down from on the Highest Heights, and wakened,

That strong Desire,

For the Strife and Triumph reached not, on Earth,

Until, freed by his Death, his Soul of War-like Fire

Sprang to a more Just, more Perfect Sphere.

Then, who shall ever tell, how deep, how grand,

The Abyss of Sacrifice unhinged it's Mouth?

How Thought, and Fervor, flowed as Light,

Through those Heavenly Ranks

Of the Present Being, with no Bounds?

And so, just as Alexander,

Great King of the Macedons,

Succumbed to a Common Death,

His scarred Strength laid low, into the Earth,

By those Viral Microbes of the Indus Valley;

Just as that Great Conqueror, Alexander,

Was lulled, deep, into a Sleep-like Curse of Death,

By the mere hum of an Indian Mosquito,

Transmitting deadly Disease, into the veins,

of that proud, bare-chested Grecian Hero;

So, too was Alexander's last Incarnate: Patton!

Yet, not, by Tropic-woven Fever strains,

Was his Medal-strewn form felled;

For Patton died of a Moral Sickness:

A Corruption, A Degeneracy:

Infesting, and fast,

His very own sworn, and Noble, Creed.

It is, still, three-score-and-seventeen, a long Year later,

That same Decadence: this contrived,

And Deconstructive Force,

That did, bloody, pierce the right temple

Of John F. Kennedy,

And the Steel Beams of those toppled Towers,

In great rigged fires, ignited from within!

Must we wait, yet, another Century,

For some other Patton, another Warlord Incarnate,

For to realize, what People, and all too late,

Is it who truly Reigns over our lives,

Regardless of "Enemies", be they in the Right,

Or of the "Wrong",

Beneath these azure, hallowed skies!