Dry the dust, and
weak the light
amid the sandy storm. Warm is
over-represented here. The snows
of home will welcome back their
bodies when the holidays draw near.
Until then, all that can be clear is
pain induced amid the warring factions.
Faithless, in their sacrifice of honor.
Waiting for the air to clear, that they
may start to murder once again.
The pilots play computer games
while body counts are made
in shame and glory of some ultimate
but senseless, bent high score.
Another drill, they're reaching
for the core. Carelessly imbibing
in a national pastime. They never
stop to wonder, for to wander there
would mean their death, sublime.
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
please bless the ones that kill the most.
So they pray and so their god demands.
Holy wars, depravity. Particles adrift
in seas of blood. If only they could
leave it all alone. And walk a path
of love into a night that never ends
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .