Unremarkable nights lead to obtuse days
Arguments made effectively irate
But I counter the second-hand consolations
With reminders of a yesterday so extant in its ache
So ailed, my soul, with every excuse as to the memory\'s survival
Coalesced with all the versions of what may or may not have happened
Withering away, the rot begins to stink
Doused with sickly cultures
Torn from the bases, the barracks, the front lines
That should have met me with fate
A prevailing caricature to the reckoning of inheritance
Teeth gritting through every dig for the bullet shells
That stain my fingertips with the tar of their powder
Deformed and defacto
A fraud to these soldiers
A waste of all these good things
Defended, wrought with self destructive habits
Maybe just to make it up to them.