beauty, masculinity, poetry, smoking

War, Tomorrow

a scream

A roar.       A plea.

In my lowest moments

When the weight

Throttles my worlds

Throat and I know

The face of my enemy

Each time I catch

My reflection

And what comfort there is

In knowing I can beat him

Make him work for me

Than against me

Friends and lovers

Turn away when he declares

Victory but I know my foe

As I know myself

So let me weep again

Raise a glass to him

‘War, tomorrow?’

 

 

 

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