Poetry

When I die, Bury me at sea; just make sure it’s warm.   When my heart no longer spasms, Release my remains in space, -the one measured in fathoms Where the great ships rest among unexplored chasms.   Bury me at sea; just make sure it’s warm.   My remains to be recycled, do not…

It was that pile of horses. That pile of horses screaming in the mud. That pile that made him afraid to sleep.   But his war didn’t have horses. His war was up-armored, with guided missiles. But we don’t choose our nightmares, so his were drawn by horses.