Red clay soil dug up to form a trench.

you are a medic
in a field of your own
half dead sorrows

the fox hole
is the place
where you find
a ruined self portrait

the map
of your last battle
is hidden
in your bedsheets

your thoughts
are the casualties
of a disfigured life

your subconscious
is littered with body bags

you walk in
the same circles
in the same fallow field

you know
there is a back road out

you will set out
on your own again

the villagers
grateful for your departure

but all you see
in the distance
is the burning mausoleum
of childhood

Photo by Andy Rogers, used and adapted under CC.