Where's the rest of Third Platoon, I asked
The boys who came up to me,
"Dead, Captain", said the Lieutenant, "All gone",
I'd better get back to the letters I've been writing,
I think, wondering what is worse,
Dying, or having to keep a tally of all the boys
Who die, hideously in the helicopters,
On fields and in Humvees.

I need rescuing

Cowardice is tempting, shoot myself in the foot,
Go home to a limp, a wounded leg and a blackened memory,
What is left of honour, except threads of our flag,
Blanketing my men in coffins that reach unannounced,
In civilian lines.

I wish I could say something about the deceased,
The martyred, as the Colonel likes to
call them,
The Heroes are those who come back afraid of noises,
Loud speakers, and lightning,
Because it reminds them of Patrol Duty.

I'm still here, at the front lines,
Wondering if I can call it a day,
My gun is cradled in my arms,
Like a woman, (but I've lost her too).

I may, after leaving you, shed no tears,
Write nothing, dismantle the lights at home,
Take refuge in darkness, in drink, intoxication,
But I will probably miss you dearly.

I may, after a few days, get used to the silence,
Get used to the ghost of our past, lurking
Behind every door, waiting to reveal itself
In a moment of pain and suffering,
But I will not get used to the defeat.

I may, after leaving, spend months lying to myself,
Think that all is going well, even pick up the phone,
Without the fear of hearing your voice,
Even if it is the only thing I crave.
I will not, however, read your letters,
See your profile, read our messages, and accept
That once we existed.

I may, after a year, regain my voice in my soliloquy,
Look for someone else, watching for signs of failure,
Go blind to the ghosts that pull back the curtains of memory,
To remind me again of all that I lost.

I will not, however, look back.

In blood and suffering I find myself most inspired,
In the cries of pain that pierce the air, I breathe in,
In suffering, my body perfects itself, calls to action
My most gifted talents, my urge to caress your wounds
Is my only consolation, my antidote in my gloom.

Peace is a balmy state of carefree insomnia,
My greatest indifference is to myself,
Because I love my heart too much,
So that when it is broken, I find solace,
In Suffering, as she takes me by the hand,
through the corridors of Pain, and damnation.

Our thoughts are wisps of  cigarette smoke
Which rise to the sky, in rings,
reaching out in supplication, from within
to without.

Do we accept the wounds we think we deserve? Is there a choice
in the pain we inflict upon ourselves, in choosing how much we bleed,
For our flags, our heroes, our lovers and our ideas?

Is there consolation in knowing that Justice is served by our own hands?
Pain is dealt in our silence, in our choice for quiet
When the multitudes of broken hearts and starving Stomachs
need a voice.

All is not lost in the  trust that we place on Humanity, hoping,
that we can defeat the waves of bigotry which crash,
upon the shores of our homes, to break the spirit that we
foster through times of peace.

Hate is the fuel for carnage, the bitterness of people,
lost, without a voice, lost, in the blanket of silence,
that we tuck them in.

It is a privilege to hear you grieve
in my company, showing
that you trust me, with your tears

After all, what  greater comfort than grief
In the Company of someone who comes and goes,
Like the seasons?

It breaks my heart to see your sorrow,
Laid out, like heirlooms, in a cold, dark evening*

This is an evening of my discontent with the sunlight,
My only refuge in tides of my Life,
I wish to breathe again.

We exist, like kisses of
mist on a window pane