Broken Warrior
The oaken cluster gleams of gold upon
the noble
breast of warrior, returned from tour
in land far off,
the seventh crusade waged for
blackened flowing gold.
All those left behind look with envy
upon the man,
the hero and the brats that cling to
him with pride.
But beneath the smile and the wink,
behind the doors
of the blue starred home, the
children peel and slink
away from the father that was seldom
there, wife
wipes the mask away from face – then
silence like
a tolling bell, like the taps of his
fallen comrades.
Then doth show the wounds of heart,
the bruises
of the soul, as lack of love swipes
ope the bullet
holes the pierced the human spirit.
The endless
yelling that hits unknown enemy
behind the mother
of his children, forgotten – a home
to hell turned.
But the sleepless night gives way to
coming day,
and once again the family steps upon
the stage –
each must play their part well, read
the proper lines,
lest the whole sink a little lower
and the slipknot
wrap a little tighter round the
parents and children.
What balm is to be found amongst the
friends
that hide tongues as sharp as knives?
Only does
the bottle drown the dark thoughts
and nightmares
the shake the sleep from eyes when it
comes, as
a curse of God, but the hole is never
filled to brim.
One thing is certain as the
worshipped man looks
into empty eyes, into face contorted
by apathy –
such a generous uncle steep price of
soul requests
for all the bounty given to the rest,
for the privilege
and the knowledge paid for not in
coin, but in blood.
Then when he sees his life already
taken, unknown
and ignored, he takes up the gun that
gave his livelihood,
then the destiny is filled not by
enemy hand, but by
right hand that weaves with left the
lethal knot –
then jump – and life is shattered,
measure for measure.
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