Marching.

I am numb,
A mannequin painted by my own indecision,
And dressed by my lack of vision,
Destined to resent and regret,
Passive and uninspired.
But I march with an army,
Of faceless and distant bodies.
Each a hollow shell,
Mindless wonderers,
Vacant and idle.
And the gunfire rings on,
As I take step after step,
Looking past the horizon,
Seemingly steady and apparently unfazed.
But I am not there,
Absorbed in drowning out the voices,
Hopeless in their pursuit to wake me,
Begging me to address my sorrows,
As if I had the choice.
Because I don’t know how,
Nothing to replace my plasters,
Easier to continue and march.