Poetry

Mercenary

Notes she still writes
with warm regards,
her wounded ‘I’s capitalised
with a weak hand.

Reading without feeling,
alone in a bunk-bed,
way out past the front,
in enemy barracks.

Cut-off from logistics
and support. The walls
all shot through;
the windows smashed.

No point composing
an answer now;
no knowing which way
the war will go.

You’re a mercenary
of words, who should
never have pleased anyone
to lick your sword.

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