To The Unknown Soldier (first letter)

Dear Sir(s),
Maybe we’ve slipped under the mud with you. What does it mean when soldiers are called peace keepers? A means has become the end, a repetition, an unwanted mold, an unmarked grave. Our bones are getting mixed up.
Coming back from wars past you’d have difficulty adjusting. You’d wake up from murder and absurdity as if from a dream. It would seem as if lifetimes had gone by in your absence. You would be amazed to be conscious — to be alive. Seeing stars in the night sky might engender revelations. You would live in the moment without fear or emptiness.
But we’ve been dreaming all of my life. We are all asleep and it’s so strange to know it and not wake up. I keep meeting you on the TV, in shopping malls, in the dug up earth of condo developments. I see you trying to hold in your intestines behind the hosts on the set of Entertainment Tonight. I watch you crawling stealthily under IMF conference tables. Sometimes it looks from a distance like you’re pumping someone’s gas.
Peace isn’t what you thought it was — what you fought and died for.
Everyone’s been drafted.
I want to wake up.
Our bones are getting mixed up. We’re sleeping with you.
We’re rotting together but I’m not dead yet.

I want to leave you behind in the ground for good.