I’m trying to forget the fear, the mud, the stench of bodies
Blown away from themselves. The barbed wire scratching at my soul.
Shuffling towards death, one by one in dirty uniforms
Those hollowed out eyes reflecting back from my boots aren’t mine.
Others may drop plastic poppies on stone crosses and listen to the bugler
Strain at the high notes, and do nothing.
I want new explosions, new hungers, new challenges.
The dream in my head: not being dead.