After the act,
where do you go?

Plans, meticulous plans
executed expertly.
Comrades martyred,
wheels in motion,
all is as expected.

But you.
Commander no more.
Comrade no more.
Those who groomed
and trained you,
are on to fresher meat.

Hunted, hated
you run,
but where?

Me, I could trust
to bold humanity:
could hope for help
in darkest need.
This is simply
what we do.

But you are broken,
and I wonder:

Does your faith warm you
in ditches?
Do rain and hunger fade
in the light
of your great sacrifice?

At three a.m.
does the fact that you,
like any fool,
can **** with a gun,
compensate for barred doors,
cold windows,
closed faces glazed
in baffled fury?

No touch
but a fanatic's.
No love
unchained by dogma.
No hope.

My poor brother.
No hope.