Put me on Mars

 
5am and the grass is dust-dry;
the sky clear as black ice.
It's desolation seems hostile;
placid as Mars with a bit more wind.

I was always charging into battle
with the sun in my face, but I aged,
got wiser maybe
and put my sword down
but I can't find the off switch.
There's faces still perched on the knuckles
staring right down my throat
grinning
at the fear hardening in my marrow.

There is no calming voice
with a welcomed hand on my shoulder
to tell my eyes to look differently.
I know a world enough to keep my jaw tight
though this world's existence  
becomes more questionable with every quiet day.

I'll keep swinging iron,
throwing my fists into things that move
and executing everyone who looks at me.

Am I in the wrong streets
and wrong times?
My palms should kiss a battle-axe shaft
but I'm no warrior,
the real warriors remain unaffected
after people's claws have wrenched hard
at every fucking thing under their ribs
because there's a bigger vision to encompass,
a vision that's not for weak eyes like mine.

I should stay on the grass,
in the 5ams,
just shout me when the screaming starts
if it ever starts.

If I wait there long enough
maybe God will come to me,
lay his warm hand on my tense shoulder,
I'll pat his back
and sigh relief
at his harmless frame.