This is not our war, as his shadow faded half way across the door.
He has been on a run, a self saving race for far too long.
How sweet the sound. I’m his last rebound.
This isn’t our war, as I choke drowning in sulphur.
He has been away for 8 years, 4 months and 9 hours.
It’s not him, definitely it’s me.
As his words try to shy me away from the truth.
I can only bask in the sunset memories which are functional.
Slightly running off, you fade away.
But your last words rang,
“This isn’t our war”
Maybe in colours we didn’t match.
I needed you in a batch, either black or white.
For in this colours I truly existed.
But you were a mix, self appealing grey and in shades of 50.
But the problem is, I can’t be steel.