The day the music died.

We were all seventeen or eighteen.
The jungles of Nam were waiting
like dark visions in nightmare.
You get to be close as soldiers
more than brothers
more than wives.
The clearing was pretty
the feeling of an opening
in the dark trees
of the  jungle was a relief.
Then the light faded
eaten by some monster.
The flowers of our youth ended
in only a few minutes.
The tracer bullets lined
all the way to thier targets.
The petals of our childhood
fell like snow.
The imprints
of the carnage were
indelible tattoos
on our memories.
Out ofsixty boys
only five of us got out.
the dreams of my life
we're tainted red
from that day.
I visited the clearing
a few years ago.
wartime enemies
turn into just people
when the blood is dried
and flowers grow on
old battlefields.
I knelt down and
said a prayer.
Not to an uncaring God
but to my friends
who lost their youth
and futures in this jungle.
For whom weeping tears
was  just not enough.