How many men did he see,
Come beaten down after a tussle with insanity,
Who took refuge from love coming undone,
And the unwebbing of tightly coiled ego,
Frayed and twisted in a such a way,
That a prayer to God couldn’t save his fate,
Such a day laid in wait,
Where blues and golds sprung to stifle his gait,
An assault of conscience,
A ruse of pain,
A bitter sword
Left to strike its bane,
Streams whispering of currents anew,
As the battered soul trudges on with a betrayal
Of taunt and sinew,
And there he laughs glee as the spring’s morn;
The stillness as it quakes under the light’s dawn,
Grooves encroaches his brow,
Sweat nourishes his belly of solitude,
Leaves that have fallen a long time ago,
Brings warmth to concessions only he knows,
As one goes many will come,
To be held by the noon’s sun,
Before coming undone.
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War Poems 