Morning

The morning mist hangs in the air.
Suspended
Like a still life,
within my still life
Breath goes in. Breath goes out.
Steam rises from the first cup of coffee
And the cold air carries no sound across the field

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All the lost

He wrote a requiem for all the broken
All the lost and barely breathing
In the chamber
Beneath the light
He wrote of the glory in the fight
To stay alive when the soul is dead
and rise above the crushing dread
And with each line, and dot of ink, he felt his own
He felt his own
But when the light died and his ink was spent,
there was nothing left for all the broken
save all the years of hard devotion
And so he waits now, by the door,
to the land where the living cannot go.
Heart in hand