Sonnet 12

The cleanest air will flow into my soul,
A cleansing force that rivals only God,
And mother’s hands prepare for me a bowl
Of soup, as down the homeward trail I’d trod.
I’ll stand atop the deep and crescent moon
While sparrows sing their song of sweet despair,
A song of love, a song in which to swoon
The deepest cringes of the nighttime air.
But home will only find me in this hell,
The burning mass of unexhausted death,
And now I hear my final horn to knell
In shells and men with evil to unsheathe,
And drive me swift with fury to my grave.
The truth of this no faded dream can save.