Fragments of fictitious regiments,
which have never stood, now cast
shadows, Infused with the life
of a miracle mind, radiating rays
of hope. The son’s of fallen soldiers
cry out in anguish for the petals
nourishing the decay of death.

Cautioned about power’s insatiable
hunger, and the difficulty to be
found in plowing these fields of fond
foliage, without inspired guidance.
Remembering, sadly a youth dreams of
revenge.

The field newly tilled, offered to
the tears of cloudy conscience,
falling falsely upon the ground once
slaved over, only to wash away the
eroding evidence of last years harvest.
With them goes the footprints of
each distraught young man dreadfully
walking to find his father, so he may
memorize his face one last time, so new
seeds may be spread upon the saturated
earth which welcomes new growth,
new hope.

Expanding, the roots resemble the
fingertips of memories, rocketing
through programmed paths of thought
so you’d never forget innocence, never
forget revenge. Swelling with pride
the fruit falls, smashing itself hard
against the enriched earth.

Separated flesh from core, microorganisms
work to keep the process clean.
Moving quick, angrily feasting upon the
waste of moist, sweet flesh, while the son
passes time rewriting history with poetic
inspirational speeches to his compatriots.
Another word sent flying.

Many years removed, his craft is passed
to the next son. With each decade their
shoulders widen, they become wiser,
the decadence mightier.
Reviewing his father’s notes, and the wrinkles
imposed by memory.

A mind once as pure as this young man’s,
is soon replaced by terror, expectation,
and anger. He grips the plow, tills
the field, all the while dispersing salt
upon ****** soil screaming,
“This stops! This stops!”
Blood flows for his compassion,
for his love, for his patience,
for his speech, for his ignorance,
that he alone could stop it.