Worlds Away

what the nomad brought home

The Deserter

I don’t know when you killed me.
All I know is that it didn’t hurt
And I probably didn’t cry.
I didn’t exist by then anyway;
I was a ghost
Invisible and mute–
Or maybe just a rotting piece of flesh.
But now I’ve come back to life
And I watch the blood drip,
Flowing again
As I clutch shattered dreams in the palms of my hands,
And I don’t know what to do with the fragments
Or how to patch the wounds they leave.

You finally learned what it means to be alive,
And you flew a white flag
And sent peace offerings across the ravaged fields,
But I’m too exhausted from the rescue mission
To claim the spoils.
And so I die in battle one last time
By finally winning
When I’m too weak to join the celebration.

Leave me to pick that shrapnel from my palms,
Pull the scattershot from my chest,
Patch my armor,
And stagger my way back through the fields
To a place where I can make my home.
Go on, call me a deserter!
But I was the only martyr for the cause.

July 11, 2008 Posted by | Poetry | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment