#vetern
The old man sits in a wooden chair,
worn from years of use.
The fire is ablaze behind him,
warming his body, cold from the snowy weather.
It’s silent in the house, the only noise is the man’s steady breathing
In, out, in, out, in
His head in his hands, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
A long night of nightmares,
of gunshots and dead brothers.
The memories stay with him,
even after years away from the battle.
They plague his mind, infest his dreams.
He wishes he could be freed of them day in and day out.
But for now, he only sits
in the wooden chair because it is like him,
worn out from years of use.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
Lines marked the echos of a time long ago
Our steps aligned, and hands entwined
lingering down across the battlefield.
Whispered thoughts, that escaped
your pain there etched on your face,
letting out the secrets too hard to bear.
Remember, fort Griswold?
Where we surrendered for a moment
Arms open wide, as I kissed you one last time
admitting to a care that was growing,
in spite of it all.
There on that knoll you made your strength known
picking me up when I fell letting your hands carry me.
Broken soldier.
I remember you.
Do you remember me?
I'd been so sure I knew it all
until we were there,
and words were spoken and I saw
what you did hide there.
Upon the battlefield where blood was shed
Not one of them surrendered, and wound up dead
years ago, and I knew it well
You'd seen your own fort griswold.
Out there in the desert, and the war a muck
grenades, and the sound of machine fire too much.
Death, and dying every which way.
If I'd never been there, and you'd never said
t'would be easier to forget you, but it's not that.
And I wonder of Griswold, and the destruction
of time.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC