VIII

The chaplain preached through the camp,
devoured devils with his sanctimonious word,
and with his mouth called out the rust and salt
and wasted, ruined grout from foreign, defeated cities
upon my edged blade.
He spoke and shouted of moths and showers of treasure
held high in heaven.
I replied, to his celestial pride,
of headless Goths and divided hordes and wholesome, holy whores.
Then quietly mentioned a brutal, bellicose religion restored;
shook hands with the heavenly host,
and prayed a path to apathy.
Salvation, and I am sullen, gracious.

Tired of most everything.

So it goes.