Enemy

Soldiers pass by the small, worn-down hut.

My brother hides in the basement;

A crash on the floorboards,

Blood stains the old wood.

A man, not our own,

Yet, not much different at all.

Days pass, and still he is cared for.

Nights spent dreaming of a life outside of bloodshed and loss.

He wakes.

Conversations spark, and a bond forms between those destined for enmity.

He is healed.

Reality returns.

The fantasy ends.

There is still war.

I have yet to find peace.

But in him,

There is hope.

Verloren Fortuin

6.18.2012