The Dormant Soldier

When your time
runs shallow, it matters not
if it is day – or it is night.
He told me he wanted to kiss the sun good morning
before climbing back, into his bed.
I told him -
that this is the place where wounds are mended
and dead men's dreams get put to rest.

He was so perfectly white laid
against the softness of the blankets
colourless, between the folding of the sheets.
Childlike expectations
spilling around inside his tangled mind
left clasping frail, how now, tenuous their hold.

Was he an officer
or a simple soldier far, far from home.
Shall I, this once - before I close his eyes
with overly excessive love
negotiate upon his life of none normality?
Then softly, I shall leave him dormant,
this brave soldier, who can no longer -salute.