Final fag in my mouth into the battle lines
with everything to prove to myself.
Mustard gas smoke signals leave sky-signs
to read on packets for your health.
I’m whistling a little tune from before the war
hoping I will get to win la guerre.
I dream of being able to snore once more
and wake up to breathe in a lungful of fresh air.
Go to Source
Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
