Call Up (Poetry)

It must have been so hard to leave in Spring,
with love so fresh, its bud just barely opened
and all that promise like a breath held back
in expectation.

Safe, domestic dreams halted in their tracks
by his papers — inked harsh and formal,
the heavy words pounding a dry storm,
surreal with danger.

That letter was the spoke that stopped his wheel
from turning. Life ended there
with fear trapped underneath the brave farewells,
speared on her last kiss.

It was all over — he marched sure — resigned
to fight another’s war and left
everything he valued, felt his homeland
tugging at his feet.

The agony of watching the shoreline fade
far worse than the bullet’s bite,
his grief sharp as a blade severing
a hollow promise.