I write this from the front
palms bleeding
vision fogged
and many a tale I'll never be able to tell
I write this as a witness
- a survivor if you will
in the midst of a battle most sublime
What they've done to me is most cruel indeed
to make me the enemy,
a traitor of my own esteem
who ambushes my worth at every mirror
And what wounds I've inflicted
upon the Glass Soldier
Such maiming has not been seen
since the anguish of my youth
What power is this that creeps over me
What disease creeps so sly
that even as I know their tactics
and laugh at their superficial arrows
i slip ever deeper in their clutches
and come to believe their false values
I write this from the bunker
preparing for another counterattack
But you know glass soldiers don't mend
When the stones fly from within
Before the Damage
Dance
Talking Trails
After the Battle
The Comfort of my People
Dove in the Thorns
One a.m.
When the wolf is silent
and the asp huddled
I will make my move
Beneath closed raven eyes
my tunic tight and arrows notched
I will slowly slip away
Out of the rage
away from battle madness
and into less foolish fiction
Whisper names about me if you choose
Come along, if you dare to die slowly
But I myself, the unhero
want only to see that simple man
one more time, clearly
without that veil of fear