sheltered from the cold by
words from the dead
large leather chair
on steel bullet wheels
absorbs all the pain that he feels
the words he has spoken
through gaps in their hearts
bound in blue folders
stood in straight lines
we've all got our heads down
waiting to fall
the flashing red light
the oxygen masks
he'll fly us to heaven
he promises
he promises
the accolades
all silver framed
the accolades of war
a soldier sold out for grief
your little chief
your little chief
with tired hymns
and empty grins
and jokes that punch holes in your skull
remembering
your face not your name
could never once
apologise
could never be very far wrong
he'll fly you to heaven
on steel bullet wheels
crushing your head
words from the dead
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