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Four Years War Fought Hard My mad dogs are out tonight. Rage grows in the widened sky, carrying a drift of fog, a violence in the valley. Dishes decorate our room – thirty-ought-six shells left dead like horses after war. Hold that raggedy doll tight, its blinking eyes cannot weep, its torn dress means everything to you – four years war fought hard. I tried to leave the hard booze behind for you but poison is tough as love to give up. Near the front, some skin was scratched. In the barracks, admirals rolled in restless sleep, thinking of dead lost to a small kiss deep in bedsheets, in between the pillow's mountainous climb to light sleep and a victory full of shellshocked casualties. Words can be perfect weapons. Expressions kill. After four years, my suicide of booze, my chance to leave war behind failed in retreat. My armor and bravery gone, I left the battlefield for the long wait of grave, no war but war of calendars. My resign slipped under your door was rage but rage without the bite of teeth.
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