With snot pouring from me as

vessels burst from the pressure of my blows.

I feel less together, stitched with

soft tissue in and out.

Stuffed like a swollen foot,

like a water soaked doll,

the fabric surrendering to mildew;

rather than shrivelling under dust and death to ash.

I am filled with the battle of life.

The blood and pus just

inconveniences not filling my breath,

not touching my throat or filling my chest

but for small fits.

I am stuffed with war on the most important front.

I blow and blow to bury the dead.

Then I slumber to pass the battles in time.

For at least the battlefield can rest while its soldiers die.