The Soldier

He watches the night

Shapes between dusty louvres

Lights shadows cast. Sounds

Of words, cries, and groans

Oblivious to our sexed air


Hands in pocket, pants hanging low

A quiet raspyness, his voice speaks

Of name tags in streets of strange lands

By the hundreds

Of bodies with heads unknown


Taut cords of muscle clothe veined limbs

Ridged skin grow a farm across his back

Memoirs of armed jungles and deafening screams

His scars, holograms

Of deaths not died


He never sleeps, never snores

His eyes are empty dark discs

In red pools. They tell

Of gore, blood, and death

Nightmares behind shut lids


He would return from every battle

Exchange his money

For my body

A loaded trade of demons

Seeking dreams


We are broken beings

Sailing on passion’s wings

Ghosts  expelled with pointed thrusts

Hot tears piercing freezing hearts

Lone souls condemned to more


N.B: For us all, the wars we wage, the ghosts that haunt, and the escapes we choose. Most especially for soldiers fighting and dying so civilians can live and sleep safe. May your Spirits find peace.

…To each man, his demon



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