Poet (dried).

This is trench warfare. As bloody useless and harrowing as.
No one really gains ground. No one really wins.
Even waiting or withholding takes
one to the grave, one torn
limb at a time, a burning tree
spitting firey sap
desperately – not to live, you understand
but simply to discharge
excess energy.

I could throw some aged work your way
and call this done
suppress the nature of the battle, the pain of
punching through — dub it
progress, stamp the compromise
honourable comportment
in the discharging of duty, but
I would always know, and I would
never again
speak truth, only ever empty
repeatedly
some less vital compartment, a
No Man’s Heart, a space of non-
the place of
None.

Courage, my heart.
Be brave, my soul.