Living soldier.
So many words on the tip of those lips;
so many worlds reflecting in those eyes;
so many stories carried beneath your breath;
so many passages beneath those feet.
Between those walls,
your sanctuary;
those walls built of sweat and heirloom,
you walk beside the dusty memories
rolling on the floor.
You walk between the echoes
of maudlin nostalgia
that hang in the halls
of your sanctuary.
You never cared about
the money for those books.
They were simply old friends
you were letting go of,
while they passed into their next life,
loyally whispering between their covers
the story of yours.
