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