Drink of the wine
for the gates of Helheim
lay locked and asleep,
I who walked into mortars
shell peas for a living.
Beyond time where death pays its due
those that I fell with and the few that I knew
make no contract.
The light plays soft music that
wrinkles the skin
and we tan.
hides for the man that sells hides
to the traders that ride on the wind.
© 2017, John Smallshaw.