The Last Forenoon Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The last forenoon

It was Sunday I was sitting peacefully at my desk
when an interior storm burst knocked off me off my chair
I witnessed machine gun fire hitting a wall just above
my head I was covered in dust like powdered dandy
and I thought, here we go first torture than a bullet.
The put an oxygen over my face a wounded soldiers
going home after losing yet another battle.

I was born again and could remember the constant
battle the never- ending war of my phobias,
Eight floors up, one lifetime is enough, but the soldier
could not break glass puny his hands weak his arms.
Yes I’m home but my smile is a Janus mask I cast no
shadows on the wall like the living do.