Analysis of Everyone's A Critic - The Writer Rated

The armoured, self-propelled vehicle rolled through
poetry's caterpillar tread; summer
collected butterfly wings whilst danger
zones stuttered cannon fire musical death.
Machine guns sang of old age, never reached,
and soldiers of fortune cried about love.
Still his cries looked for underlying truth.

A writer of rank rated his success
as low as a blind attack at night's end,
he stank of cynicism and fatigue,
comprehension was not apprehended,
words just zipped past like dream bullets, mental
agility was a stripe removed from
language; a.w.o.l. military moments.
Characteristic calls wandered grief's noise.