So what is it? Are you afraid? You taste afraid. I’ve got a mantle in my pocket I’m not afraid to use it. It’s so heavy and it dreams of you. Of the broken bits you made a cacophony that briefs the lonely soldier. On Soldier’s Field I call you and all of you are in me when my muscles wind like sheets as sleep disappoints. Again and again and again you fail me. I am not let down. I am not surprised. But bits of childhood in me still did not expect it. You fall against me and I am a feather, drowning in tar. I taste you thick against my tongue. The choice laid and every brick the yellow of piss.