Not a soldier –

Peace was lost and death was there, marching men into the kill of other men, those carried straight as taught, passing women’s bravo, and the sensitive men stayed away that day.
Feeling lost from birth, that day was not their day to find a grave to fill; from court docks, from cold cells, it was ‘never would it be.’
Hard labour and a white feather myth toll was a prison freedom into a whip-drag through curfew streets, a near touch of iron stillness in bricks, but for women’s jeer from black beyond.
Then, and after then, those sensitive men died in rain with mud, lay draped in leather with canvas.
Together, expired their body gift to Gods and Prophets with those they couldn’t be before, and still were not, when all of this was first upon their heads.
Now all held a trembling prayer card, some new beads and crucifix, this bloody-up not chosen as end but given to each, scars and eyes the last, the same.

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