The New One

Lights that are
varied. White. The color.
White, white, white.
A lot of it. Lights and walls.
Tinkles and jingles.
Voices. Feminine
and masculine,
high-pitched and low.
Walls and abysses
and caverns and doors.
Windows big and small
that need washing.
The cold cloth of fresh
sheets and pillow cases.
The cold space there
at the right
for a friend or other
listener. Cold metal,
gleaming, clean.
A warm tear runs down
his right cheek, proof
of his realization
that all this is real.
This nightmare. The
landmine they could not see.
His missing leg.
It is all too real.

Someone said "war is hell."
It isn't, he thinks.
It's a deceiver,
a big cheat.
It takes lives
but isn't God.