those thoughts rage ripping the armour,

then to arrive at base under fire

ambushed and falling I slide to the trench,

not where men stood in their barricade boots-

not. like. this. at. all-

Aware this area I’ve been before

where fragments fester inside out

but not the bodies the fallen men,

not. like. this. at. all-

the forlorn cries thirsty turning mild,

there I see mosquitos spin the air

and bite what rests, some dense drops.

To kick the stress and place the thread

my then strung head helloing outside.

No escape without my sight I slip.

A goner morphing the fences to a grave

the murder and this side I used to survive.

[2020]