Truth was Never Seeing
It.
Whispered ghosts in the fog, close range rage against the mighty scent it is not the war our sons will not return from it is the dream.
Are you conscious, blind, hero loved, or broken, booted and penetrated?
Iron repays your weight, loaded arms given back to Earth’s crust. Weapons welcomed home the bones, death has gone to rust.
Grey evil this good and bad, who’s killing us, each standing in the other’s light forbid the untouchable glory.
They hold on to their hands not belonging to another — pace, pain — unanswered.
Who can sage from a belly of fear the spark held for the world to notice this, this will be the last? Our rot will not clean the air. Those stars on your shoulders cannot take away the bloated burn. Only the birds will eat me, dogs if there’s a chance, the trees will secure me intern.
Soldiers see with the same face; battle stark and naked. No room for the fine blood lattice, filigree sayings meant to be something other than. The scene is where the soul takes another breath or not. Unhinged future it steals.
You are my sons my wat, you live inside me.
I start from scratch.
Rain, come and wash me away; I am twisted now from the inside.
There will be no coming home.
I look like I’m listening when I’m not.
Michael Stang 2020
