The Wrong Kind Of Poetry

I was a soldier in search of seashells 
On my way to a foreign land
I was promised a piece of paradise 
But left with burying bayonet in the sand

There are omens and tokens and totems 
I carry in the colour of my skin
Of leading strangers from ashes to Asphodel 
But leaving behind my own kin

And by this ocean of giving and forgetting 
I toss my morsel to the receding tide
And build a mausoleum out on the seashore 
And pieces of my heart therein I hide 

For the mountains I crossed on my way
Told me that silence comes to those who seek
Meaning at the end of an answer 
And not winning; because that’s for the weak

Now as I sit by lap of the waves
And watch my bullet holes go larger around
I align my irises to the horizon
Till my heartbeats makes no more sound