Nothing to Nothing

Briefly home
from another unwon war,
barely survived,
needing to catch up on some light
I gather heat as well,
easy enough to gain,
impossible to store and keep.
War makes its soldiers cold,
their coldness last.
It’s been a long campaign
in the war between too good to be true
and too ugly, evil, to believe,
for the tipping of the balance
of the boulder, world,
on Sisyphus’s pointy mountaintop.
We warriors
and our worriers
know these rules of war
and waiting:
No one wins.
No victory lasts.
There are as many ways to die, as live.