The soldier cleaned his gun in anticipation
for the battle he would be fighting. His mind

was focused on his job. His heart was centred
on his illusions. Lonely soldier in a uniform

without a mind of his own. His officers
received their orders from somewhere else,

from men and women who were fighting a
war of greed. Death was nothing more than

a statistic which would be tabulated and
toned down for the media. Not good to let

the world know the actual cost of human
life in the adventure. A tear fell from his

eyes at the thought of how many men he
had killed. He remembered sitting in his kitchen

talking to his wife and making plans for
the future. That was until somebody

somewhere far away had determined
the future was not his to plan. So he worked

at his task in mind of constant wonder at
the waste he was trained to create. His

entire purpose in life was to **** and so he
killed as best he could. The faces of the

enemy reminded him of himself. Other men
who had sat at home with their wives talking

about their futures together. Such a waste of
young ambition by the old men and women who

sat comfortable in the governments of life.
Lonely soldier surrounded by his comrades

all of whom equally trained to hate and ****.
Ah, but the bands would play and the magic

of hero dust would fall upon the shoulders
of the men at arms. How brave they would

be in the battle with their blood splattered
all over their clean uniforms. The soldier knew

he fought for a cause but it was odd that
the cause was never quite explained, save

for speeches on freedom and destruction
and illusions of happiness when the enemy

were all dead. Lonely soldier was startled by
an enemy as he cleaned his gun. The two

men glared at one another wondering who
would die first. Soldier and enemy came to

a major decision. Each stripped off their clothes
and stood naked in front of one another.

Two naked men. Without their uniforms.
Now which of them was the enemy?

The pain is so sublime
    it is like a piece of fabric torn.
Morphine is the prescription
    that is promised as relief.
I have a better healer,
a celestial figure of appeal.

Hail Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven,
      I submit myself to you.
      The pain increases,
      the pain increases.
      It keeps me awake at night.
I appeal to you, most Holy,
      please comfort me.
Mother of God,
      may my thoughts
        dwell always on you.
Sweet ******,
may my words reflect my truth
I'm lonely and alone on this
       frustrating destination.
Crawling reluctantly,
       towards the conclusion.
Afraid and disheartened.
       Alone but for You.

You lead me to your Son.
You bring me to Him.

Mumbled thinking of
      fragmented living drowns
       out living as a real person.
Collecting stones of agony
      that batters the walls of
        resistance. It destroys
        what it can not heal.

Thank you God.
Thank you for hope.

That is all I cling to.
Mary, precious Mary,
cloak me in your mantle
of promised protection.

Hail Mary,
      Hail Mary,
        Hail Mary.

The blinds are closed.
Still a bit of daylight
        filters through.
My hands, my "me",
        invades the space.
The bed flutters in the
      softness of the room.

Tracing my limp body with
                my matted hand.

I feel death.
Sense it.
Wait for it.

My body will be so cold
when it ceases existing
.
It frightens me.
Saddens me.
Empty cadaver emptied
          of my essence.
Without a sound,
  my soul will depart.

I pray.
Beg.
Implore.

"Dear God, let it not be so."

But it must be as God decides.

Novenas and rosaries fervently said.
Muffled words that fall
                        like mud in the air.

When they come and prepare me
                                   for my funeral,
                                    I will not cry.
No. No tears.

Instead, embrace peacefulness.
Close the casket lid,
                 I'll be gone.

I spent my boyhood avoiding
      the disgrace of my differences.
Creating alternate empires that
      I ruled with stoic passion.
I gave out negative vibrations, as a boy,
      to control the level of association.
Built walls and lived within them,
       perfectly encased in sarcastic wisdom.
Does not take too long to understand
       that being yourself is not suggested.
Eager advocates educate the boy that his
      differences must be suppressed.
Be the same. Be the same. Be the same.
      Moulded and conformed, unaware
of the boyhood desiring to think for self.
       I spent my boyhood reading books
that opened libraries of imagination.
      Absorbing the solitary creations
of so many magnificent lives. They presented
      me with echoes of alternatives.
I never have understood the slicked back
      membrane of uncentred filters.
Solitary self-confinement made so
       much more tickled sense to me.
I passed out scented cigars of me
       to ear-drums inclined to not listen.
They agreed to, and supported,
       the numbness of not thinking.
Letting the self-declared prophets
       dictate how we must believe.
I spent my boyhood being the boy
      that did not fit the paper model.
Set it on fire. Set it on fire. Let the
       message always be that a man
must indicate his own set of standards.

Sometimes sunshine streams through the windows,
like a tousled head of hair. Bright and solid light

that opens the room to dangling frames of dust.
The dust collects itself under the furniture.

Hiding, transforming, resisting change. It becomes
its own entity, its own statement. Gradually the dust

overcomes the sunshine and the room is again bleached
in bleakness. Voices are gradual, distant sounding, as they

try and survive in the ***** room. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows like a growing sense of doom.

Hard and harsh vibrancy that collides with the anticipation
of the occupants. They are uncertain how to proceed with

their daily routines. Like the dust, they collect themselves into
arbitrary points of views. Mangled intentions that are never

stated, but instead are felt like rotting fruit in a basket.
The smell permeates all areas of reality as it dominates the

passion of the souls. They moan in obligation. They whine in
muted patterns of surrender as they whip around the room

like the dust floating painfully in the air. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows, like a bloated body in water.

The beginning of the race always promises to have an ending.
The ending always promises to begin again. But the room will

always stay as it is, dust and doom its statement to the world.
And, sometimes, sunshine streams through the windows.

What will it be like
when I close my eyes
      for the last time?
Will I see that
    bright light
      I have heard about?
Pain may flicker
in those last moments,
      or maybe
       there will be
      no pain at all?
This I do not know.
From my first breathe
     to my last, oh how
many people and places
have I known and been?
Seems a wandering train
      of adventures
         has left the track.
Oh, how it seems
to have been rushed.
       It is now,
       as it seems,
        the end.
That last stop
    that shall only
     happen the once.
This passenger
    is getting off
     at that location.
Will anyone be
      at the station
        to greet me?
Such is the faith
     I hold, that I
      hope this is so.
Shutting down.
Closing.
Dying.
Final visions
filtering themselves
      from my eyes.
Who will I see
    around the bed
      when
       I
        swallow my
         last gasp?
Should I be afraid?
Or should I
     welcome the
      death rattle
       as a system of
        release?
Free from
the sundry
incompleteness
of walking in this life.
Not having to
      worry about
       the
        imperfection
         of walking
          on this planet.
As life drains
     out of me,
      what will be
       my very last thought?
What final image
       will I take with me
        to the grave?
I pray it will be swift.
Absent from pain
       and present
        in God.

My heart weeps in harmony with your sighs.
Eyes wandering over the rain of disillusionment.
That is what we are left with, these cold tears.

Cold tears that freeze into poignant memories.
Years have flown by, some fast, some slow.
A long time of collecting sleeping lazy dreams.

Lazy dreams that filter through me as I sleep.
Crazy thoughts that go nowhere, do nothing.
Yesterday is lost, it is never to embrace us again.

Embrace us again, that sometimes arises within.
I slip into those types of thoughts, pleasing me.
But these are temporary visions, impossible now.

Impossible now, that is the reality we now are.
Tenderly we see one another, such a passion.
Your heart beats and it reaches out to my heart.

My heart weeps in harmony with your sighs.
Eyes wandering over the rain of disillusionment.
That is what we are left with, these cold tears.