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Taking The Ow Out Of P.O.W.-M..I.A.

Updated on October 31, 2009


Taking the Ow out of P.O.W.-M.I.A.



Oh, how often he would

wrest with his enemy demons
and their unrelenting obsession

of torturing him in his seventeen years

 of captivity, that held no exit.

Lost in the torment of

a Vietnam prison camp,
dormant and forgotten

in a bamboo cage,
aching for something to do

until he finally chose dying,
knowing the best was yet to come.

He had burned up

all of his past lives,
and had long ago run out

of the borrowed-best
of his dead comrades

prison PJ's, now in tattered rags,
insect infested, he simply

refused to survive.

Everything else was gone,

in the shadows
near his tiny window to a sun

felt but a few hours a day,
and his memories were remains

buried in another life before this.

Pacing was his only pastime

in his cramped cage,
bent over like an old man, he hobbled,
longing for anything Divine-feminine,

all the while knowing his devil-angel

of death would be.
It was only fair after

so long an abstinence.
without love or lust.

His empty-eyeballs

gazed in a 3 mile stare,
beyond eternity in a

languid fixed position,
as he realized no price

too great for freedom
was far less expensive than this,

unrecognized as human
till he was no more.

He could no longer

wait for his until-then,
in his anything but tender trap,
His wait had become

a weight too heavy to bear,
and so after a few mumbled prayers

he found a rock-n-rolled it
deep into the back of his throat.

Then he swallowed hard,
ingesting his tombstone,
tightly lodging it in his air passageway
until he choked silently to death.

They found him with a smile on his face,
a mocking grimace that shouted out
a royal "Screw You!" in a comedy of tragedies
as he broke free in a way,

no guards could foreshadow.

He remains a P.O.W. on some
yellowed, long filed list,
in a government cabinet of grey,
but his true remains lie in a shallow grave,
somewhere east of despair.


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