behind the lines of armistice
He wakes every morning
going through the physical motions of survival
even though his mind is grinding to a halt
due to the weight of hopeless notions.
Lost at sea, the downtrodden dingy of rotting planks
ducks and bobs amid the turbulence
as he tries to stay afloat with assistance
from an absinthe spoon.
But every day, his world gets smaller
as his hopes are pulled apart
and left to join the driftwood
from the world he left behind.
The sun turns his skin against him:
By day, he lives in hell, waiting for the cool breeze of night
only to find himself defenseless to the crisp chill of darkness
that strangles his lonely neck with an icy grip.
The few rags that remain,
he wears like the stripes on Christ’s back -
Useful strips that serve to remind of sacrifice made
for men that lay in lovers’ arms under the same moon.
Her name swims past parched lips and sails across the abyss
only to fall on dead ears half a world away.
And he sees her face on the tip of a great ship that looms on the horizon
as he closes his eyes one last time.