I feel strongly for a
boy with eyes the color of
bullets
and with biceps built strong
like bolts in the armor
of a tank.
He wears stains of dirt
on calloused hands from
years
of digging plots 6 feet down.
(He thought his name
would be on the tombstones.)
Behind a small smile
and a boisterous laugh,
the affliction rages on. He is the army
of one, battling against an enemy
he’ll see only in the reflection of
his dog tag.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
I feel strongly for a
boy with eyes the color of
bullets
and with biceps built strong
like bolts in the armor
of a tank.
He wears stains of dirt
on calloused hands from
years
of digging plots 6 feet down.
(He thought his name
would be on the tombstones.)
Behind a small smile
and a boisterous laugh,
the affliction rages on. He is the army
of one, battling against an enemy
he’ll see only in the reflection of
his dog tag.
