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.