The Truth

I think my desk is oak.  Or mahogany.  Or cherry birch?

My pen has black ink and red.  Sometimes I like to change things up.
My work is rather boring.

I have so many speeches.

So many people to convince that war is best.

I dream I am safe.  At home.  In your arms.

I sleep with the sound of bullets in my ears.  Falling debris is a constant rain.
My face is never clean.

I lie without a bed.  The sand is my pillow.  I clutch my pistol close.

I know the truth.

This breath could be my last.