I look down at my boots and their straps and see the sludge slathered on the tongue and smeared on the deteriorating souls.
I look down and I ask myself, if they’ll make it through this winter.
My pitted fingers caress the withering leather and thin laces with no pleasure of the flashbacks of the bludgeoning boots splitting the mire in order and precision.
The mire, dried now, brown and cracked like the hills we salted and left to eat itself from the inside out.
The split end laces compliment the worn leather.
While I’m complimented for my “Working Man reconnaissance”.
War made me an old man at 25.
Wrinkles helped shadows cast deep pools upon my face.
My scars tingled like my spine after I first fired my gun.
My ears still ringing from that first shot.
My mother told me my battle cry, reminded her of when I was born.
Her ears still ringing from my first cry.
I bowed my head at her funeral, just like at my friend’s funerals.
I bow my head now more often than I ever did before.
When I do, I look at my open wounds and my deteriorating soul and ask myself if I’ll make it through this winter.