Wooden platforms housing the collective words
Of authors past and present tense,
From which I drew shelter in pubescent days,
Back when escaping life was just a turn of the page,
I would pass the time in naïve haze,
Filling my mind with the white lies
That writers call device.
I drank deep from this well of thoughts,
Getting drunk on the heavy draughts
Taking in the pathos notions
From those that would describe a puddle
When it's an ocean
They stuck in me,
Those written hollow truths.
Duty, Honor, Glory,
Consumed my mind
And in search of these,
I left home to find
Leaving behind those paper portals
To gather dust in an empty room,
Where there are none to exhume
Such dangerous ideals.
War taught me uncertainty,
Where chaos moves too fast to see
And life is but a privilege
Bestowed by a corpse's eyes,
Oh, how I long for those comforting lies!