Far From Home

The only things these eyes do see

are white walls and desert sand,

and the question lingers: of which one

is worse, and the resolution settles on

both.

Then I think about Turner,

about the tourniquet he wore...

I think about how “the lord” saved him,

and how I had failed him,

and then I really think... about “the lord”,

and try to ask him about the great men,

brave men, who were blown to bits

on a battlefield far from home,

left in foreign sands to die alone,

and the only thing I receive is silence.

And then I punch that god damn white wall,

until the only thing that remains,

is bloodied desert sand.