first, he wrote 100 lines of his undying, regal love;
he kept it in a notebook wrapped in shadow --
he spoke to her in passing autumn, under dimming skies
that flickered like his hopes, and her indifference.
then, he crossed 100 lines, in mud beneath barbed wire;
the friends he made and tried to save were all --
but in that bloody haze, he dreamed of softness, still, and coffee,
and being purer, better, there with her.
but she knew nothing of those lines, the written, or the wounded:
she'd covered up her own scars very well --
100 lines of red neglect, a mind turned out of season,
and never dreaming anyone
could love her