I stand there, looking down at what I’ve done. Hoping I haven’t destroyed all for which I know, I thought; I only fought to protect? I’m doing that now, now’s all I have left.
Somedays, though, I need help; even I can’t see it.
That hope for a future when all you are shown is memories, news, killings and constant despair.
I stop it from falling.
Lest it do; only to wake what’s peacefully already existing there.
I close my eyes to weep; silently, back in the dark again.
Baclava covered and sure, more than most men; faced fear and it’s long gone so none in these eyes. Fucking manhood, projectionists, they speak disguised clear; lack of actions in large factions caused the grief that you hear…
Nothing, sorry… love,
“It’s OK babe, come here.”
Perspectives of War