Those are the beats of the drum
That sound the homecoming
Of a warrior.
Unused to such cheer,
Of death I understand,
That steals the body of its warmth
And the mind of all thought.
Mine are the eyes of a man
That pin all hope in one corner
And then,
Destroy the corner itself.

My torn pocket boasts of
Borrowed land
Where days are like nights.
Where sleep comes fast but shadows abound. 
Where days are dreams but all unknown.
My torn pocket boasts of
Borrowed land
Land that I fought to win

There is a wall at the end of this mountain
Which separates my world from yours 
I live in hope.
There is a wall
I can scale it, when I, 
Choose to do so.
Not the seamless 
Heartless oblivion 
I have been taught to see

The ability to speak one’s mind is not rare,
The sensitivity,
To know
When to do so
Is.

I hope
Dear friend,
This innocence stays
And,
Sometime soon,
In the years to come,
The intelligence
Meanders through,
In waves,
Unstructured.
Pure.
And, most definitely, resolute.

No torn pocket
No borrowed land
No mountain
Just one wall to scale
And,
So many hearts to do it with