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.