Solid black, scrambled thoughts,
a want for panic, a lack of spirit.
An Impending, unfortunately ever-present, feeling of disposability.
A sense of expendable purpose.
His heritage a herd effect: Immunity to the disease of death.
He never was a poet.
he never was a jokester, a man, a life.
More a puppet, a pawn,
a blade of grass on a lawn.
And now, nothing said, a tad bit done.
A blade of flesh, a clone.
He is me, one of them.
I’m still thinking, not caring, about success: My failure.
My death will be remembered; By not a name but just a number.
Songs of General Him and Admiral Her, along with this amount of us.
The names of my Superiors, and the number of my friends.
I wish I’d been a poet, to live my days with writing.
To think instead of fighting is the way to live the fool.
Too little of the human, too much of just a tool.
Today the end of deeds,
22627,
to anyone who reads.
Yours desperately, 22627