A flash of gold and red and grey,
a deafening chorus of heartbeats,
a moment the present solely exists;
this is the anthem of war.

My right hand has been grasping
for months at smoke,
vapour caressing my fingers
while sliding through hopes.
My ghosts lie not behind me,
but in my very mind,
inside my breaking heart.

Another shard of glass
fits neatly into this endless puzzle;
a broken vase that was never made
for the purpose of gluing back together.

© Blake Leitch November 11, 2016