and go to war.

If I’d known then what I know now,
before I decided to fight,
I wouldn’t have signed up.

Death doesn’t bite,
leave that to the sharks,
wild cats,
torpedo,
sharp sting of the bullet.
Death itself,
that which is undefinable, may present us with a sense that pertains to nothingness, but nothingness is not pain it is nothing…

You bring me here with your charm, use what’s useful to you,
then renounce the declaration when I don’t fit the mould.
In ageing… why do I continue to fall foul of these complex cat and mouse games that you and I relate to/makeup/invent/create?
Is it really because I crumbled when told to take up arms on the front line and wasn’t able to ride like a trooper in your war?