Words

I know of no word that can

mimic the graze of a bullet

or encompass fear in its

consuming entirety.

This isn’t No Man’s Land,

and we are not soldiers.

We are poets.  And what

does a poet know of war?

I know that No Man’s Land

must be a nightmare, awash

in the blood of innocence spilled

by the sudden flash of a

bullet.  But I see no

bodies, and I see no blood,

because I do not know these

things.  I am no soldier.

As I write, a man is

formed in the spaces

between my words.  He is

a soldier.  I’ve been told

he embodies exhaustion.

I am told he is a shell.

He’s clad in blood: broken.

Yet the man I see stands

tall and proud as well.

The weight of the skies

can claim no comparison:

Atlas himself could not hold

the burdens and memories

of war.  But my soldier

refuses to break even though

he’s barely a projection:

a splash of ink in a field

of snow.

What keeps you moving,

Wayward Soldier? My

hands say purpose still

lights your eyes and

strength remains in your

limbs. But is this true?

You exist only in my mind.

I couldn’t hope to know you.

I’ve known few soldiers

in this short life. Perhaps

it’s not my place to speak,

but my pen does not

allow for anything else.

My experiences fall

in ink upon paper.

I pray you understand.

Because there is no word

I can form, either by pen

or by keys, that will shed

any light upon reality.

I am no soldier, I’m

barely a writer, trying

desperately to encompass

the mighty oceans

within my bare hands.