I. The Sights
What is it about walls?
Pencil marks on plywood
A formation of fives
How many more lines will I draw
Before it's over?
I etch them one by one,
The fallen standing watch
So we remember
Back home
preserved in bronze and stone
a growing,
no longer living,
legacy of names and dates
I take them in
Every one
This isn't where they belong
So still, so silent
It's too late.
I thought walls
were supposed to keep us
Safe.
II. The Sounds
The chaos of war speaks in many tongues.
It whispered to me, hot breath in my ear, a delicate silk scarf wrapping too tight around my neck, just a simple "we need you, Ma'am," replayed in an endless loop, the soundtrack to my oxygen-deprived vertigo dance.
October 3, 2009.
It screamed through the satellite phone, static laced with panic, solid rock blasted and crumbling - "we're picking up pieces of Tom!" -shards of shattered hope-glass piercing my crystal-clear focused numbness.
October 3, 2009.
It hung heavy, thick crimson velvet curtains silencing the chapel bells, echoing through the stillness of the final roll call. One by one the First Sergeant calls our names, the practice so familiar it barely registers until it doesn't. "Staff Sergeant Thomas D. Rabjohn." If I wait long enough, listen hard enough, I know I'll hear him...
October 5, 2009.
I'm still
waiting
for the dagger of the response that never comes
[insert today's date]
III. The New Normal
They say I'm not myself, not who I was before.
They think they know me.
the mirror shows a shell
a twisted abstract of what might have been
fading in
and out
of what was
what is
normal
Just breathe.
breathe in, breathe out
keep moving
before the dust settles, be gone
take cover, take aim
keep silent
just one shot, redefining dead wrong
watch and wait,
keep alert
the demons always come at night
analyze
keep your guard up
trust too soon, we'll pay the price
This isn't real.
the dust spirals
in the mirror
calling out to the winds
their names
blown away
where most
refuse to fly
clouding
what is
with what was
the life
I lived
I lived.
YOU ARE READING
Catalyst
PoetryArt is science. Science is art. To seek to prove this hypothesis is the greatest adventure. Breathe deep. Enjoy the ride. All it takes is one spark to ignite the passion of imagination, ambition, desire, or a dream that can change the world. You ho...
