amidst the hope and dreams
he walks upon broken glass.
drops of blood like red breadcrumbs
scatter his path.
the wolves can smell the fear
licking their lips over the choicest morsels.
like fallen poppies on fresh snow
this battle has been lost.
yet the war will go on
until the losses insurmountable.
and the feet have worn down to bony nubs
and the soul a piece of patched leather
shiny and bare from use.
only then will the men rejoice
at the collection of bones thrown before them.
the omen they’ve relished all along.
and hanging his pieces of bone about them
they’ll regale with stories of his strife.
forgetting that this once was his very life.