We will not walk again
eat or drink or laugh,
love or **** or sleep or cry
it is the end
when we say goodbye,
all that we were
or could have been is gone
only memory carries on

…at four in the morning,
the room was sharp and silent
through the stillness of the dark
and yet, I sang those old songs
swaying in the cold wind
with bottle upon my breath
as I dreamt of green birds
and the lonely white lotus
that kept fluttering
into my scratched head
while coming apart at the seams
with tears of sadness
I sat and pondered
where they all went:
those little caramel ladies of brown doom
with novocaine souls and enamel bodies;
you gave me the liveliest moments
even when you brought me
to the brink of death,
you have liberated me during
my most shackled state of mind,
you spilled the truth when you
told me, “I could never be reached.”
and therefore I must come to terms
with the absence of your warmth
as the green birds have flown
into concrete skies
and the white lotus has shriveled
into a curling black mass
I sway with the wind,
rising the bottle
and belting out
those old songs
in a room so
sharp and silent
at four in the morning.

You are not the first to stand here,
shifting your weight from heel to toe,
listening for something that won’t answer.

This was someone’s altar once—
iron-veined and humming,
burning red under the weight of hands
that bent it to their will,
knuckles split and salted,
prayers exhaled through gritted teeth.

They worked like men who had no choice,
backs arched into the shape of tomorrow,
sleeves rolled past their elbows,
skin browned with the kind of sweat
that never washes off,
that seeps into the ground
like blood, like proof.

You were born too late to know them,
but their bones remember you.

You carry their names in pieces:
a slanted initial in your passport,
a jawline that sharpens the same way,
a craving for salt, for silence,
for anything that lingers—
but never long enough.

Time has worn them down
to a Sunday ghost,
a muttered grace before supper,
a name no one says right,
a thing you promise to remember
but never write down.

The rails are rusting,
but still they hold.
The ties are rotting,
but still they grip the earth.
The past is splintering,
but still it snags your skin.

You wonder if their hands ever ached
the way yours do,
or if the ache was different—
deeper, heavier,
rooted in something you can’t name.

You wonder if they knew
they were building a road
no one would walk back down.

And you wonder if they’d still have done it,
knowing they would fade into dust
long before you came looking,

long before you ever thought to ask,
before the rust reached the marrow,
before their prayers turned to silence,
before you let their stories slip
like sand through your teeth.

When I die, don’t look for me in the stars,
Look for me in my words.
Look for me in the books that line the shelves,
The letter “R” and the letter “E—"
And in every word you see them,
Please think of me.

Look for me where I’ve walked
And where I’ve never been.
Look for me in sadness, and I’ll be there...
But look for me in joy, too, won’t you?
Since they’re both so beautiful,
And both so true.

When I die, come look for me here;
Words won’t just disappear.

it hurts in the heart
when heroes are have-nots
after giving their all,
what’s left that they’ve got?
how many more vets will fill their cupboards with clocks?
how many more lives will pay the exorbitant cost
since health ain’t free or sold at loss,
it seems it was long lost
in that place where the war was.

now we find folks forgot
how foes brought fights fought,
take for granted what they’ve got,
giving big deeds little thought
when honor is selfishly half-sought,

selfless?
it is not.

we’ve seen what that’s wrought;
far from the peace we sought
a figurative hell but its cold, not hot
it ain’t literal, but still its critical
and truly despicable,
to treat lifesavers worse than criminals.

Some things are learned,
but never taught
so now and then,
spare searching thoughts.
you think its work; but it’s really not.
So take advantage, ‘fore chance is gone.
hit your limit, and go beyond;
you’re never short, going long.
you have the right to prove doubt wrong.
we came from one; so every one belongs
the poor, the rich, the old, the young.

you cannot lead those you leave behind.
there’s a detriment to that design;
a colour outside of lines.
where mindless fools make fools lose minds
and in a sad state; they've sacrifice saints.
estranged, to a stranger they pray.
solemnly, some will say:

‘we’ve simply gone astray,
somewhere along the way’

but when wiser ways breed better days,
it’ll be known without seeing or saying it.
the truth will grow without need for feeding it.
felt in your bones and you’ll even be bleeding it;
it won’t be a boast to believe in it.

these simple self-reflections
spot ego-built deceptions.
as intermittent intellectual intervention
pares prideful, porous perception;
rescinding regression, it’s purely progressive.
and in immaculate conception,
loose leaved lines’ll lay
layered with lessons;
words weaved tired, but tested;
learned, not suggested.
wisdom writ better
than the best of them.
not rested,
’til the rest of them
appreciate what was given in
by heroes that have come and gone,
how hard done heroes have been honored wrong;
they were our foundation all along.

you see, it’s soldiers’ shoulders we stand upon

He is here, at home,

wherever he is absent --


though still known by us.