DarkxHero

I toss and turn and tremble from a dream Or did I only shiver in showers Of sweat, funeral fire, and splattered skin? All these imprints pierce me like burning scars. I scream and wail and blame myself as I Rock the cold, contorted corpse of my friend, Whom died, at last, on a Sunday mourning, Pouring ashes into the urn of my brain. I have to leave you behind, my comrade Falling line-by-line into gray trenches— Forgive us, farmers, for your summer fields As we count the death row that leans on edge: A German mariner drowns underwater. A Russian tanker kills the fits of self. A French pilot lets go of Heaven's arms. Our own so

Heavy boots clink clank into the bedroom Past the fading flame flickering softly To where a lonely old man lay face-down In pools of blood surrounded by pictures. He could have been a child's grandfather, His face beaming as his family stepped Through the door of eternal years gone by, His veiny hands gently pushing the swing. He could have been a five-star veteran, Screaming, dying, forced to fight a war but— Pacing around the bunker to ward off The marching hordes dancing in. Carry on. He could have been a pained cancer patient, Thirteen tumors bubbling in his throat As the last cigarette burned on the floor Of