The day you are told "that's it" you should wonder where all went, whatever happened to the voices, of the track on the snow, of the smell of cordite, of the emptiness of the trenches and look at the void under your feet and wonder how deep...and for how long will be the fall...

Walking in the dark without knowing
that I was walking all over my words,
perhaps things that were said in anger
repeating the same curses said before,
felt that all my phrases were homeless
like all my vomited veterans from war,
sent there in false pretenses of freedom
to die far away in a place far from home.

My hands tried to touch in the shadows
but only found the emptiness of a void
where nothing ever had true beginning
or it was the place where end was born,
an Utopian expanse of poets that dream
of the time when man could find love,
but brutality woke poets to cruel realities,
man is only here just to broke the laws.

A poet said “couldn’t find mental quill,
my muse isn’t here, she has been lost
for some time, she has abandoned me
I can’t write and I can’t write no more”
silence wrapping the frustration tears
as the poet sat on all inspiration’s rock
in one literary forest by late November
when trees let its dying words to fall.

Walking in the dark without knowing
that I was walking all over my words,
wandering among unwritten old pages
that are turning brittle like all my bones
by a Time dressed as Sorcerer Merlin
cursing everything to become a stone,
even the hearts of the ones witnessing
a veteran soldier dying on a alley, alone.

Come, walk with me into the soldier’s shadows,
cos we will find there, my dead buddies ghosts.