Since I Stopped Caring
Things have gotten worse.
These are not my battles,
I finally realized.
The war rages on, downstairs,
it seems inevitable.
I am above it all.
I no longer raise my voice.
The three of us, a choir
of the damned.
I remain silent, count my ammo,
guard the stairs.
It’s not my battle, not my war.
No one’s on my side,
an army of one.
The bayonet sharper
than the creases in my uniform.
Night after night,
I stand at attention.
“Words will never hurt me.”
The morning brings fresh casualties.
© Anne Westlund
prompt: “Since
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