The End

Its kind of amazing he thought they'd notice
The burns on his hand from the lit tobacco first
To hint towards burns less visible
But everyone defied the axiom
Their smiles and anger a half healed surface
On the fourth degree burns the nicotine stains could have betrayed
He was excellent at hiding for he was a thief who half wanted to be found
To be stripped in the town square for his crimes
With the rest, with everyone
Naked and crying while the hangman was moved
And removed his cloak to join the rest
Stepping off his creaking political platform
To find rest among the wicked

Rest among those despicable wicked selves he knew
he knew so well
he knew the in and outs of that soul
Warmed by their fiery felt feelings
The envy and hate of the normal and average was a comfort at that point
He realized his judgment was a double edged sword only when it fell from his hand and clanked on the planks
His half healed heart tore open from the force of it
and all his thoughts were laid bare in a pageant they all wordlessly watched
with gasped faces and knowing nods

their faces shown the blue night-light of stars that made him smile as a child

The Soldier's "Sober" Conclusions

I can only guess and hope they’ve felt something like what I felt
That caused them to do what I fear I will
And its generational but the generation is faulty its littered with discarded genes in thoughts that were excised by righteous men among the failing
My family’s health slipped through that net and I’m the result a man who can only absorb and type so much and all he’s good at look at what he makes he cant absorb as fast as some but presumes to ascribe faster than a prophet
What a sick shitting little flea of misbegotten misery that little flake on the shoulder of atlas thought he could rest
On his families laurels
On the worlds shoulders
A tipsy, weighted crest

The Soldier Marches to Moscow

Stripped of profusions the pink ones illusions drifting from my dick now sullen and sick with satisfaction grim pacific thought left wasting on the ground of earth erected held by a shaky atlas distracted by harlots on the left and maidens fair that are free but never seem to be drawn what a surprise
caught up in a net of thought whose illusions were wrought by the same blood alcohol content that’s pressed through the same generations my grandfathers deaths liquid obliteration in their thoughts