You hear the sentinel
announce his challenge
to the night, but you
fail to reply.

The firelight ebbs
as a thousand campsites
of the last soldiers
sleep their longest battle.

You sit a solitary hermit
at the end of war
facing a mirror sky
that smokes with dawn.

A wind of butterflies
have bled their wings
to gather as leaves in a tree
and breathe for you.

You lie with unfinished dreams
in embrace of the dry riverbed
that flows with corpses
as your morning prayers.

One broken chrysalis
cries emptiness
where this butterfly
escapes your monochrome.