And now I am doomed, stopped short of karma's beast.

Yesterday's tomorrow remains insufferable, the labelled hands that curse the heavy metal of my identity.

A family of seven walk through the visage of my lens, the stop watch over their heads, the inevitability.

Sand becomes plaque, arid dust upon the wasteland of human hope.

I do not stop the mortar from firing, I load another shell.

From within the tank I feel secure, certain that my rocket will connect.

They watch trivially from screens in Washington, life means nothing.

In the warm comfort of London, British Petroleum rewrites the rules,

joking about share holds in graveyards.

I stretch for chemical balance, I miss, I fall, I succumb and I stay there.

You are not yesterday.

But you will be tomorrow.

Advance forward in time, holographic fireside chats.

I requested this duty, I signed up, willingly killing the dead.

Write Iraq on my grave.

Certain people will remember me by face.

I am your grandfather.

Google may glorify me.