This poem does have a name, but the name really has nothing to do with the poem. It was part of an assignment and one of the prompts became the title of the poem. The style is free verse, which is what I write most of my poetry in so if that’s not your type of poetry. My apologies. I do have some other styles which I’ll post later on once the revisions are made.

They stormed through the black of night,
Wearing their pressed brown shirts.
They marched into the streets
Intent on destruction
And bringing despair to their people,
To break all that people held dear.

To their victims, this was their statement.
Their judgment against a people,
That did not matter.
Munich was death’s birthplace,
Where movement was born,
In that beer hall long ago.

When telegram came,
My mother cried, my father wept.
I felt a rage of fire burn in my heart.
The man said I was too young,
But I was determined to take my place.
And I will be the death of death itself.

My schoolbooks did not prepare me,
For the death that would follow.
The millions of screams
Moved me to action.

My chair no longer holds me.
The coins in my pocket do not weigh me down.
I have answered the call of my people.

Helmet on tight, rifle at the ready,
My horse will take me,
To Berlin where I will march.

To avenge my uncle, my people.