The last man standing will be on Facebook posting selfies…
I don’t write for you I write quite selfishly for me, me me me he said, and I meant it. sometimes I chat chit just for a change. but I still write this for me if you disagree complain to your MP that won’t do any good either…
What makes me me? because it is about me me me me me me, we are about me you are all about me she is me me me we make me me me me, so why do I bother asking?…
unknown. They put something inside me shiny, bright to blind me, but I find it easier to see when that something is inside of me. a medical procedure? inserted through an aperture? I’m sure that I don’t know, but they put something inside me, a tracking device so they can find me?…
wrapped in swaddling which admittedly is mollycoddling and tucked away so none can say just who I am…
Then it became obvious that the obvious wasn’t so
motion sensors compensated for the walking wounded
and on the front line where time was allowed elevation
and the stations of the cross where observed by forward gunners,
the post man strolled through first class carnage to deliver field green bandages.
dreams occasionally obstruct my breathing and believing the dreams to be real
I steal back into wakefulness,
but always return to the battleground back to the sounds of thunder.
I know that if I go
under for the third time
there’ll be no
elevation to sight a line on me
no stations of the cross
there’ll be nothing left of me
no cannon to the right of me,
I wonder if I’ll be free then
to inflate my ego.
It may be that it will be