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 Nov 2019
Isaac
it was a silent splash
into the river
and all its bewitching curves

as it sank into his pores
his mouth his ears
his eyes his body

as one second of purity
washed countless years
of killings and being killed

cleansing him from the inside-out

then he sees him
on the other side

again.

for a moment they freeze
in their shock

the quiet ripples are no longer
silent as they scramble out to shore
as they ignore their bare bodies
as they reach for their veteran
killing machines

and for another moment

he watches him crawl up to shore
while he aims it at his head
his finger at the trigger

but in this moment

in their nakedness

stripped of identity

they are one and the same

they are no different

there is no violence no hurt no war no sadness no killing no hate no guns no knives no punches no kicks no grenades no trenches no shrapnel no-

and with a muted splash
he feels the river
of blood running down
his head

as the moment of realisation
slips away
In war, everything seems to be black and white.

Will you get killed by your own grey heart?
 Nov 2019
Isaac
It calls for me.

It laps against my bare feet
barer than the dead bodies.

It is an actual mirage
A true illusion
A real lie.

It calls for me.

It whispers in my ear
And this time it’s not the wind
Not the screams not the cries.

But it’s the whispers
Of a kiss on the neck
Of a finger on the small of your back.

It calls for me.

It reaches up to my
Legs of age and death
Of loss and grief.

This time it’s not a bullet
Grazing past my calves
It’s the blood trickling down.

I long for it.

It calls me.

I fall into it.

It calls me.

Bare and broken.

It calls me.

It calls me.

It calls-
second poem in the three part series

the feeling of after having been deprived of something you want for so long - the desire reopens that cracked and dry heart
 Nov 2019
Isaac
i can see him
he can see me

mirrored differences
spark a rage

his red insignia
and my blue badge
can never be side by side

i take a moment
to sneak a glance
at his grimy face

i wonder if mine is as
horribly ugly
as i stare in the colourless river

his gaze lands on countless
invisible scars
burnt and marred
by other gazes

he plans to leave his mark

so do i

i know him
yet i dont

i can trace the straight line
of death
as my bullet
reaches
and grasps his heart
within its warm
and cold fingers

i think he knows too

too different to ever be the same

— The End —