Waking Dead

After battle:
unstraped helmets
drop to feet,
fingers run through hair,
quiet cries in bloody fog.

Survivor’s luck is argued
on the heads of pins—
to surrender fate so uneasily;
to kiss Spring love goodbye,
and then survive.

Yet be a bit more dead each night,
in duty to each bolt they’ve locked,
recalling every round they’ve sent
to flip the fate their foes concoct.

Mornings:
sweep the fields.
Parse and box each bloody part;
note each noble sacrifice
in reports of useful lessons learned.

Evenings:
recoiling from their trigger dreams,
fall many unboxed dead
to sleep,
yet, still alive.



G W Sisk
Nov, 2013


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