in this trenchant trench
we nest
nestling in for duration
diaries and
letters our leaves
and feathers and
sing over and over again the
paradox of beauty and
honour
wallowing in mud and
blood king in tattered army blanket
justifying it all barely believing his own words as
guns interrupt song marching in
deadly silence into darkness
until lights bathe this hospital white
sheets white walls bouncing back voices
struggling to still
sing with any conviction when death dares
approach comrade in bed beside it’s too hard to even eat and
yet we sing because we must
until a kiss transports and brings love
too close
too real
too far away
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