Lou J. Klaiber

OLD SOLDIER

I left this land
long ago

gathering death
like firewood

my eyes
empty
as I gathered war
into my destiny

hatred into
my soul

I was a mad minute
that lasted for a year

and lived
what cannot be lived.

I sound like death
when I talk.

I am a ghost

walking.

I lived too much
and never returned from
my journey
lost and alone.

How do I understand
my fingers
writing

the pages of the dead?