Independence Hard Scrabbled.
Remember the fallen because the fallen no longer can remember anything
So many sacrificed their freedom given up for others, while their brothers in arms, lose much of their independence to Post-Traumatic nightmares and scars that
Men have dodged bullets
that sought ot bleed
their independence from them
or taken some for the cause
leaving scars red and blue
stretched in small
criss-crossed stripes
on once torn flesh.
I sometimes run my fingers
in the grooves
along the walls
that list the names,
of men lost
whose bones
lie tumbled in
gray coffins,
beneath endless other
crosses row on row,
I watched our
commanders-in-grief
send more to catch bullets
and shrapnel blasts
in foreign lands
that will never
know freedom
it cannot be forced
on any country that
is apathetic or theocratric
centuries of chaos prove that,
blind non-warrior leaders
send all but their own
precious, sired flesh
I weep for the fallen,
and pray for the maimed,
for who will hire the
severly burned,
the scarred,
the double and
triple amputees
when the war is done,
"You??"
for your offices, or
store counters,
or restaurants??
some of you may
but many will turn
their face away
abhorred by the thought
I have held mothers
in my arms,
whose sons have
vanished forever,
no where to tend the flowers,
by the stone that shows
his final resting place,
Thier sons bones
moulder in the jungles,
corrode deep in the oceans,
rot in the wreckage
left high on mountaintops
no closure back at home,
where moms weep
over fading photos.
I have folded flags
into small wedges,
and presented them
to the bereaved,
just a tiny corner
of what once was,
all wrapped up
neat but empty of him,
I have fired 1 of
the 7 times 3
parts of twenty-one
gun salutes,
the harsh blasts
echoing over the dead,
much like the last
sound they heard,
and then the bagpipes
bleed wails
and make me weep,
damn the dress blues,
and protocol,
something about
"Amazing Grace"
coming over a graveyard hill
and growing louder as it nears,
and then fading softly
as they march on
moves my soul to
moisten my eyes.
And when taps plays,
the song that put us
all to sleep each night
as now it lays to eternal rest
a fallen hero,
my heart is laid
out with them,
beatless it pauses
as that last note fades,
then I gathers the
strength needed
to move on
in their place.
There is a formation
high above,
where one by
one the soldiers
who have fallen out muster,
and stand proud before God,
and he salutes them
each and every one,
and whispers,
"At ease boys,"
and so they will remain
at ease in glory
forevermore
for the glory
they fought for,
and for the country
they died for,
far above the
madness of this world.
Independence is simply us,
in dependence on them,
for without them we would all
most likely be enslaved
to some mad man's rules.
we must be eternally grateful
and never forget
where their lives left off
so that we all could go on.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III
