The Soldier

All the pieces of a man

3000 year old lover

A fresh casket of carrion

Carried away by scrawny boys

With buckling knees

Under the weight of his soul.

Bound by the gift

That he will know not longer

To write for the first time again

And sudden to purse his lips

For family and past lovers—

"Il se'n souvient?"

They wonder.

"Perhaps, does he remember?"

Alas, but he is dead.

And with a rare shyness

Awarded only to him,

He died loathing mediocre life

And forwent all the grit

Once pasted so bountifully

On his luminous forehead.

And all the late nights, 

All candles and sweat.

He spent them kneeling, by himself

Praying for attention from

whatever would listen;

But even like whores, those things 

Matter to one no more.

Listen close, dear friend

Perhaps, you are that man.

For you have become that man;

And if only you try hard enough

You may yet die that man