The Hole in My Head

There’s a grave in my pocket, a hole in my head
Pocket buries dreams, pride, and trust—
While the hole swallows what cannot be named.  

I reach to remember—but then I forget
Trying triggers the shifting of colours,
Spinning wheel—blurring, obscuring— 
What I saw, breathed, bled into the soil.
It strikes between the lungs— 
Crimson rings my eyes—then burgundy
drags mars black behind. 

I wake crying, cradling myself like a baby,
Whispering there now, shhhh—
As another missile explodes 
Closer this time.