Galiant Warriors Morph in the Shadow of War

[virtuoso]

Smudges of ash overlaying
taught skin, brittle gristle
latest relic of war
whose still life portrait
lingers in the minds
of the destined ones
but one of the many
lingering shadows stretching
from fallowed fields
their darkened negatives
archived in the same album
collecting its latest sacrificial lamb
his cold limbs devoid of color
trapped in the prism of the minds
of friend and foe alike
but lost in the quick flashes
of undeveloped pictures
lying in vaulted memory banks
his fleeting life and memory
sanctioned on the altar of immediacy
a shallow marker etched in the psyches
of men conditioned to premeditation
without introspection or reflection
survival without deference or contrition
their moral code encompassing only chivalry
until exchanging their fatigues for T-shirts
and swapping the adrenalin of war
for the mundane rhythms of civilian life
physical rigors morph into psychological tremors
the dark colors of the prism enfilade the brighter
flashbacks, shrouds of dead friends stenciled
over minds unconditioned for grieving
blips of enemy carcases etched on consciences
once seared in the fray of conflict
now tortured by unalterable deeds
and the permanence of their actions

[tford1]

Raw pain. I give a lot of respect for that poem, mostly I read a lot of trash. That was epic truth.

This Chain

Man goes to work,
Puts his clothes on in fear.
He wanders through the day,
And comes home weary of tomorrow.
We sell ourselves so small,
Look into the eyes of a child—
They are infinite.
The world is theirs.
Shoot him down enough,
He becomes a man.

Man is fear
Fear is man
Meet the man without fear
You’ve not met a man.

Some are consumed by the small fears
These people are obviously afraid.
Others need a more trained eye.
They aren’t so easy.
Their fear is masked with success—
Money.
The hypocrisy of religion
Goodness with a side of denial and compartmentalization.
The Shadow always lurks.

Don’t lie!
You’re so afraid.
That’s you running from your fear.
Your protective mechanisms are the very thing you fight,
And I’ve seen sterner stuff.

Look at me,
Rationalizing, analyzing, objectifying,
In the end,
Simply intellectualizing,
The fire that consumes me—
Fear.

Created by man it burns the world over,
Perpetually.
It’s a permanent blemish on our hearts,
The hill won’t break the wheel,
No man is removed.

It has many shades, colors, sizes; is highly individualized and shrouded.
We are contained by cloaked boxes
Some bigger and clunkier than others
But NONE escape the sure weight.

Words to live by: “Just let go of the child inside
He will only be denied
Let in the prince and the plow
Be rid once and for all of the dangerous child” ,

But then be weary of the weeds that seep through the walls
Of the castle.
The king and his subjects master the fire:
The delusion of control.

It cannot be tamed.
The wolf and the lion are all around us
And you can’t let go of the child inside
He sees, hears, and knows.
He waits for our paradigms to atrophy.
We wait to be broken, to awaken to that before,
The interlude is madness, with clowns and balloons.

The bright sun finally breaks our shadow.
But it is too bright for us to see.
Beauty to Men’s minds is incalculable.
Truth to man is love to Bundy—
Blinding at best.
Like the ceiling effect of a drug.
For, Be ye as little children,
Then see the kingdom.

[virtuoso]

Thanks, tford for stopping by and giving your opinion. I liked the poem that you posted as a retort!