Wednesday, February 11, 2009
oh those salted wounds of the epic battles we hurled ourselves into that no history will remember and no one will sing songs of, with their taste of iron and hickory smoke, marking our guilty flesh that we may remember the bodies of comrades left and lost lingering in our dark places, wearing death masks and painting with finger paints over the gaping eight year holes the images of their never to be lived futures, their could have beens, and the child faces their ever closed eyes will not spy again. we are healed now. all the books say move on, march forward, be brave and act as a soldier should. the televisions have wandered to more interesting stories. the rhetoric says what it always has said. we are good and honorable. proud and many. strong and willing. we will find a way to paint this positive. we will ignore the truth. we are very good at that.