sickly old me
bundled under a winter sun
sipping tea
for a sore throat
my nose drips
exactly like tears would
as if sickness is
a sadness too
as if the body
mourns itself
and the flowers
it can’t smell
but I sense a force rising
shriveled as my position is
hunched in this chair
in the core of my being
flashes from gun barrels
the sound of boots advancing
this is my army
in the occasional war
of taking no prisoners