Arm’s Length

In the garden of death, the toll will be paid,

even when a passive flash blows past a

war torn vestment the flowers do bloom,

whether we see or not, the blood drips

through green valleys and across blue

rivers, the ripe and rife always remember

their babies burnt by napalm death, bleed

black this eternal moon, the wyrm burps

up cannons and castes, as Jimmy and John

embrace for the last time, covered in mud,

singled out for anarchy, so let the snow fall,

my beautiful friends, and remember those

lest forgotten, doughboys so proud, men

in drab, entrenched for eternity, what cold

winter the nerves strike dull, but in the

eleventh hour we can finally rest, light up

the sky, and blow the smoke until it swirls,

it’s the last time we cry, until we cry again.


~ by Shawn M. Young on November 11, 2016.

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