Stood in a military uniform,
a costume I so despise,
you stare frankly
at the tobacco leaves
that I scrape the table to save.

The Villain is hanging from the tree
in the grounds that house your grave.
A benign smile
has ghosted me
and still I have learned nothing
about being brave.

The Villain spits on the cityscape,
a behaviour I so despise,
but he does it
to savour the drop,
to fall asleep to yoga breath
and harmonic lullabies.

You stand poised for combat,
a costume for the ages,
still you come to me
through poetry
as I keep filling up these pages.