poetry

war

The bombs exploded behind you and you ran and ran until you were certain you were safe from the gunfire that surrounded you.
You thought maybe there was a halo wrapping you in a safe embrace, but you couldn't expect something so absolutely ridiculous.

I suppose you hope for any sliver of optimism in this environment. The gas fills your friends lungs and he's dead. The friend you grew up with, who was supposed to go home to his girlfriend and his mother. Just two months ago his father was gone, and he had fought to avenge his soul.

You aren't the only one to feel such a loss as you clutch his body for a mere second before you're forced to continue.

Your aching feet pound the wet ground in the trenches that you now live in. Filled with decay and dread that suffocates your lungs until you feel like someone has released the gas that killed your friend.

You remind yourself that you won't make it home, and if you do you'll be scarred for the rest of your life.

You were half true. You made it home, but you could no longer go to the festivals where teenagers shot pellet guns at targets to win prizes, or on Canada Day, where jet planes would fly in a beautiful arrangement that you used to love, but now it just reminds you of the worst days of your life.

You pass your efforts onto your children and grandchildren, who will pass it on and on until your grave is permanently embedded with the flowers of your efforts. Your soul lives on forever