Inconspicuous paper,
deceive and demand–
a boy brings in the mail
to find a life in green,
dark script bares
far darker words–
what are my options
as the ink dries on his fingers,
like blood run down,
or casings raining black against the dawn.
Fields in the words
hold bodies broken,
but in the silent flight,
the flickering light–
a slower demise of
loneliness and stripes
surrounded yet
by wagging fingers; scathing scowls.
The smell of ashes
does not abate in breathing–
burn the scraps away
but your dearest Uncle has to say
you still have got to show.
The life and musings of many a soldier, I would think
Surrounded, yet alone.
Under pressure, and always with something to show to someone or the other! How they (or anyone) live it all, I wonder…
But they do…and so can we..
A moving poem…
Such is the harshness of life, only harsher when war is the bitter future. Thank goodness, I have to say, that drafts are no longer welcome in the U.S. of A…