World war whatever;
when you have lost your center of gravity in a coordinated catastrophe, the only thing you master is fastening a seatbelt before cars crash into walls.
Blessed are we you should wage our wretched prospects to join you and welcome poignant news some won’t return home at all.
World war love letters,
survival’s travelling salesman;
envelopes with bloodstains, describing how deep my ailments run.
Conflicts I left them for, promises on the pier, that if I didn’t perish I would always be here, but I’m always travelling for a while yet, dear.
The unknown soldier,
byproduct of polar opposites, running deeper into the heart of fear, begging to disappear inside its flying bullets.
World war whatever,
reduced to cents on the dollar, salt in the tears they will leave upon my tomb, certain it belongs to someone, not necessarily who.
But I belong to you,
long as my feet keep travelling.