Few are big

when they are small

and the little big man

sleeps

during the chaos of war

clutching his teddy bear

and warm milk

admiring his Thompson

on the shelf

it isn’t his fight

despite

those who want him to die

and they preach peace

with violent hatred

dangerous

in their love

unable to define the word

the building is shaking

as the crowds amass

and through it and into the next war

the little big man

snores

dreaming

of fields

without battles

and

butterflies

resting

in the grass.

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