The Process

Dark circles dance around explosions of

words that creak around softly on tiptoes.

A smattering of apologies rest upon lips

that fail to smile making me believe this is real.

Xylophone ribs are kissed one by one with

moans that drown out each knock-on-wood.

Raven hair covers non-judgmental navy eyes

that experience love and comfort each morning.

Five fingers carefully trace over healing scars

when body language speaks of safety and bliss.

Nodding yes allows a pink sweater to slide off

being metaphorically naked is sometimes okay.

Dimples rosy and genuine cross cheeks that

are covered with make-up to masquerade bruises.

Walls start crumbling down when butterflies grasp

for air upon quivering heartbeats that ebb and flow.

Dying for King and Country,

Every warrior’s dream.

Because old age is worse,

More crippling than it would seem.

Or bleeding to death in a ditch,

Forgotten and alone,

Praying for forgiveness

For everything, you’ve done.

In the heat of battle right and wrong are lost.

It’s “us and them” to the end

You have no future, you have no past.

It’s only for yourself that you must fend.

Looking back one day,

Should you live so long,

Your inner voice will always say

Was I right or wrong?

Kill or be killed, that’s how it goes.

The warrior’s task is never over,

You never run out of foes.

When you die and go to Hell,

As every warrior will,

Know that your tale I will tell.

In Hell, you’ll see familiar faces,

All the people you’ve killed.

You’ll be in my familiar places,

In the void that I once filled.

I’m a warrior too, you see.

That’s how I know the drill.

Hope it’s not my face you see,

Or you’ll be my next kill.

The warrior is cursed.

Death doesn’t stop a life of death.

Your next life will remember the first.

Visions, nightmares, memories follow.

A knight in white, a villain in black

No difference between defense and attack.

Still, people scream and bones crack.

The memories will always come back.