Foot Patrol

In a swift second of acknowledgment

His eyes soared
vertically chasing

Fizzing metal,

Viewing a sky that
slowly rolled

Over him

And a sun that
shone for Satan

In a wilderness of
spite.

Heat and air
merged to

Sulphurous
proportions, infused

With alloys of war
and hate that

Boiled by
waterless caverns of

Crimson
sadness,

Of lemon
daydreams.

Above a lone cloud
slid,

Soaring to
excess:

To grasp and hold
it,

To cradle a
hope;

He blinked

Motionless;

Eyes silently
still.

He fell where he
stood;

Head in his
footprint,

As a man,

As a grain of
sand,

As an important
insignificance.

Restless Khyber
wind circled

With a belligerent
edge that

Cracked and spat
and blew,

Drifting dunes of
khaki

Westwards;

As hostile sand
disguised

A sign of
being,

His mark of
living,

Our print of
shame,

This empire of
dust.

By Stephen Hollaway