The Warrior

He sits with his

back against a wall:

shattered by bombs,

crumbled by hate, while

he waits for the coming

of death, rest overtakes

him:  through his mind

run non-solidified, sordid

images of crass cruel love,

hands touching bodies, feet

rapidly rehersing running

away:  while in the background,

which is really perfectly the

foreground, death waits like

an emperor smoking, smiling.