Green plastic soldiers,
At the ready, on their guard,
Atop the red, dusty armchair.
A darkened afghan lay across its back.
(Stained by the blood
Of my Grandma’s fingertips)
I marched them to a drum
I only heard in my head.
With noises of bombs and planes overhead
The soldiers on the chair did what I said
Too often they would fall
Into the Empire Graveyard.
But I'd pick them back up.
And off to war they'd go again.
I had yet reached my father’s lap,
Couldn’t yet peer out the windows.
I knew my Pathways of Desire,
But it was easier for me to stay indoors.