NaPoWriMo Day 18

You had me at soldier
not warrior, nothing so
confident, but a stance
Decimation, every tenth
word stoned to death
You enlisted peculiar
angles, a man-at-arms
length trimmed of
spirit and bathed in
codes of syllables and
lies that many welcomed
as mere suggestions like
Paris in spring

I don’t know who this is about…Hemingway and/or Pound, maybe?

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