Muddling Over What's Past.
I remember when mud was a friend,
long after creating mud pies
with the girl next door.
Oh, how I bathed in it, smearing it
all over my face and arms
to keep the bugs and the enemy away.
Just the white of my eyes
showed bright, thus I kept them squinted,
as I vanished into a tangle of jungle growth.
Waiting hours to write
my poetry of death
in a different type of lead.
One could never ponder the kill,
just lock load, and breathe
in tiny increments
much like a gnat sucks.
To give an enemey a face would set
the what ifs into motion,
"What if he has a wife, babies?"
Instead I concentrated
on the scent of the mud,
and it's musky cloying aroma,
feeling much like
a hornet cocooned
in a mud dauber's nest,
multi-stinger at the ready,
and God help the trespasser.
Blending into the surroundings,
becoming one with the earth,
until those who sought to squash me,
lay face down in the mud themselves,
forever cloaked from life itself.
I think of that mask of earth,
whenever I wash mud off my boots,
or my hands,treating it now
as something unclean
when it was once my savior.
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