Johnny didn't come marching home again. Well, not really. When they pin medals on your chest it seems they are really just trying to fill a hole every bullet made... whether it hit you or not. You see, there are no great truths to be found in war. Well, not really. You can find all the cowards by how far they run, and you can meet your inner demons for a nightly game of tag, but no great truth. And no, Johnny never comes marching home again...he may limp upright with pride, hoping one day to find that glory he was promised, but he tends to look into a bottle and not at the horizon. When the world explodes around you day in and day out, when you help a friend find a piece of him he lost in the desert, when you come home and the volume is turned down around you because of the noise of the ghosts... you'll never march again. But here it is, that great truth we have been looking for is before our eyes... glory is bestowed by the men who lied us into this war, and often by dishonorable men...
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PoetryI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
