Diary Of A Worn Soldier Poem by Dwain Joseph

No chance hope resides here.

While we all lay rotting like twigs,

In a forlorn jungle of doubts, and fears.

Forever haunted by joyous memories

of distant times when we lived.

No chance the coconut tree dances

with the same vigor it once did

When we were younger, and smiled

Under the golden sunset awaiting friends,

Long flown away forming pearls

and diamonds that guide a tired sailor.

No chance of sacred salvation

For these tired bones so rocked

needing ethereal benevolence that n’er comes.

While I sit in a darker pew,

Reverent to tears in solemn expectation.

Walking the fool’s path so narrow,

And yet; I still thread for grace’s sake,

Even though there isn’t any chance.