I walk the Westside of San Anto,
The place I buried so many.

And the dead do speak
As they are in my words,
My very poetry.

Some have gone decent,
Others waved their final colors
With a kerchief ,now rest immortal.

So then I go back for them,
But move forward doing so,
To remember where I am
And where they shall never go.

If I am just a lucky guy
Who made it out alive when so
Many could not,
Then I cannot regret because the
Dead have no memory.

But why go back and visit
The desolation, the addicted
Nocturnal, the names who have
No faces?

Because I cannot reject myself,
The pistol I once lived by,
The nature of air and hope that
Escaped all in the ruins.

No, I will always return,
And my heart has not the words.

Now what?
Flowers for the dead and walk
The slab of names to rejoice
In what once was?

No, I come home,
The same as you,
As anyone,
Superfluous as this may be,
The return is necessary
If only to find oneself again.