after
smoke has settled
and the ground’s soaked up the red
after
night has tucked her blade
and left to break her bread
after
all the wanderers
have lined up foot to head
after
I have buried them
and laid them into bed

I am not my father’s son
though he may stir and grip his gun
I am not the army’s man
I left them long ‘fore I began
I am not a child of war
though hardened is my heart to gore

I am just the aftermath, you see.

after
words have crumbled
and there’s no one left to weep
after
time has torn apart
what we once swore to keep
after
all the wayfarers
have drifted fast asleep
after
I have wondered why
my song had not been reaped