His thoughts are in sync
With the rhythm of the hearts
He wears on his sleeve
Not his own, never
That exists in a quiet corner
Of something, somewhere
The things he knows
The mysteries he solves
The slow revolving fingertip....
Is trained... to perfection
But the cogs that run
Are not in the back of his mind
They are for more important things
Building nations...
Deconstructing war...
It is the back of his tongue
The words that twist
A sweet flowing hum
Of caressing words...
They swoon, they glow
In numbers...
Unfortunately, they are not his victories
For that is not his virtue
To each broken heart
He confesses
No intention of vows
Amidst groans...
This poor soldier will go far
And I dare not condemn him
For I know
What he doesn’t
His only fault
Lies in the destruction
Of a starved soul
To the touch of bare skin
And of a heart
That has only almost
Known love...
