my war

the cold bit into my face

the hungry surrounded me

and distant guns echoed

but I was doused in invincibility

driving towards my war
with aid to save nobody
but myself

now I only recall

the misplaced children

the soulless grey faces

and fresh graves

graced with unknown prayers

orphans were the currency of my war

the widows with no shadows my receipts

and that romantic war that lived in me

was not a war I could have healed

there was no salvation for a broken soul

just religion tearing flesh apart

(It feels like a lifetime ago now. I took aid out during the Yugoslavian war. My father and grandfather had experienced war so I felt it was my right of passage... in the end it was my grandfather's words that came back to haunt me. He had always refused to talk about his own war experiences instead he would simply say "we have to find better ways to resolve our differences..." War is surreal and an undignified end to human life ..)

Work in progress...  within a world in progress.