The Soldier

I take a look inside a mirror

underneath my breath, I whisper

“I see something decent in this mental patient

because in his eyes, he looks more alive

than me.”

 

I look past him, over his shoulder

and assume he must be a soldier

because in his wake, there’s a massive quake

where he mowed the enemy down, but there isn’t a sound

next to me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

Stories From Honduras

Lena Kvigne // Missionary

The Wandering Poet

Footsteps, Footprints and Words

The Holly Tree Tales

Stories and philosophy, borne out of my own experiences of life on three continents.

%d bloggers like this: