Conscription and Boyhood
The coarse green fatigues
etches away at me, cracking
and burning my skin.
The hands I once so warmly held
are replaced with the cold sternness
of pistol grips.
Every shot of my gun whips
me into form, chipping away
the soft ends of me. They hammer hard
as the army sculptures another soldier.
I've forgotten the lift of careless laughter
as these muscles tense and freeze.
As we march and our boots thump
against hard mud in this dark jungle,
I feel this cold settle in and wonder
if this is the passing of boyhood.
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