War, No. 2

I wipe old-man’s spittle off my hoary cheeks.

My beard is grey and long,

my eyes sadder than a dying Jesus.

I’ve spent thousands of years shouting

at my battle-scared cerebral walls,

traversing decades kicking at the bloody

mess inside my skull, years drawing impeccable

war scenes on the broken movie screen

behind my eyes.

Copyright Tim Bagwell

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