Museum

Red, tattered clothing, stained

With an old familiar scent.

One that is comforting

But also dense. It must have been

Worn by a Soldier. This

I know because I know that smell.

 

The scent.

It is moldy, asbestos like

As it sits on display. I know

This was a jacket. I know

It belonged to someone brave.

 

Glistening, rusty medals aside

A hero wore this. Now it follows

Me, as I lay here dying.

A bullet flows through me,

I bleed out.

Suddenly I wakeup

Now I’m in A Museum.