#happyvalley
In glorious swoops of courage, the birds’ talons grasp tightly to bloodied men.
Fearful.
Hopeful.
Their silver wind of relief has finally begun to blow.
Though always late, the hawks arrive just in time.
Looking back, the stories speak gruesome truth:
X-Ray was Hell; a no-man’s-land of loss and meaningless fire.
The shed of red life, salted tears, and deep-tissue scars
Has been argued to be worth the **** sweat, and northward hate for which they feel so deeply;
Debated from the lips and tongues of penguins who live in an idol home of marble and comfort,
A place where mice need not be afraid of man nor hawk,
But should be always mindful of the snake.
The question stands:
What is this all for?
The golden years of reminiscence have passed us by;
Boys have become men, men have become droids.
And these ironclad mechanisms of sacrifice have leaked,
Laughed in the yellow faces of destruction,
Cried in the sweet solace of dreams,
Yet, they remain stoic in their duties.
They are forced to rust.
Forced to fall apart.
Forced to learn
How to replace and be replaced,
How to break and how to mend,
How to hang on.
How to let go.
In the dense forests of struggle,
They play hide and seek with figures unknown:
silhouettes of themselves and each other, as well as those who they are obliged to send to a boggy grave.
They play this game,
They lose this game,
Handing life and limb for a cause which is not their own;
Hardly any cause at all,
But a cause manufactured to rescue that of another.
Brothers departed kiss the white clouds of peace,
Thanking God for the homecoming.
Men enduring thank God for another night amidst their dread,
So to savor every last breath.
Pray for death, hope to live.
Beg the question:
What the Hell am I doing here,
On some other man’s land,
Where my nose does not belong?
Innocent farmers.
Or are they suckers?
Or are WE suckers?
Pawns.
Pawns on a chessboard. Dots and arrows on paper maps.
Statistics.
We’re just a game played by children half an Earth away.
A game where
Some men are lions, some men are wolves,
But all men have learned—if not by now, then soon—
That “friends” equals pain.
And pain is suffering.
Pleading for the answers,
When’s it subside?
When’s it take a back seat so then we can move forward with our lives?
It doesn’t.
It engulfs you.
It becomes your life.
Your dreams.
Your stories.
It becomes you.
Old, frail, desensitized, and stone-faced you.
And at such a young age.
“War is Hell, soldier.”
Welcome to Vietnam.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:35 AM UTC
night is falling,
falling,
falling
the clouds rush to and fro,
needless journeys with no end nor beginning
scrolls of verbs written across the sky in messy
tangles
of confusion and stress and mayhem.
wind picks up leaves and dances with them,
but tethered they are and tethered they shall stay
and the wind quickly finds the only companions that are his to keep for a while longer
are birds and misplaced people wrapped in tinfoil.
a noise echoes from far away
singular ears strain toward the nothing that is something
searching for more and more
as something begins less and less to shine
and the stars never rise from bed
except to manifest themselves as wet teardrops
from which everyone hides, sheltering himself,
discouraging any future expression
of weariness and quivering and loss.
the tears meet the grass in a show of quiet surrender
the grass turning to their nighttime lovers
yearning, ever so much farther,
to be reunited with another display of lacerated love
from the shy sky and affected darkness
i also regard myself to the stars’
seeking one lash of freezing acknowledgement,
seeking one who knows what i feel down here
seeking, if only because i am not everyone
nor am i alone a stone,
but i am the clouds,
the stories,
i am the wind, alone in joy and pain,
i am the whisper from the mountains, never heard but always uttered,
i am the stars, never seen but ever seeking,
i am the rain, a magic, shunned by all but those who crave life,
i am the grass, hoping in vain to meet to the one i love in joyful tandem,
i am they, and they are i,
and i sit in a seat to my left and shake as my soul is read from a paled paper
hoping to the roots that someone who is not everyone might come out of their home
and drink the sky with me.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC