They Are All Heroes to Me.
Never forget their ultimate sacrifice as you live on while they have lost all that you daily enjoy.
They are all heroes to me..
They are all heroes to me, row upon row of battalions laid out in horizontal formations, dressed in fine wools and bedecked with ribbons. Here where their youth moulders into rot, underneath occasional flags and flowers, and endless crosses of white, where they were crucified, for some glorious cause, long forgotten. There are no explosions, or bullet's whines inside these gray metal coffins where the only sound heard is the tumble of the bones, crumbling to dust. The unknown dead
are the saddest, no names mark their final real estate on this planet, a resting place to tuck them away, as twenty-one shots are fired in tribute to their passing. Do they quiver or tremble at those final blasts when their spirits hover over the grave. thousands were reduced to hamburger as blind leaders secured a foothold for oil, in the Middle East, will we remember them when we pump carbon fuels into our tanks that do not kill but simply transport us to places they will never go. Can you name even one who died, picture his or her face, shed a tear for their loss, if so then you are a patriot. I know of many who took my place, when the bullets went astray bullets that held my name, then changed their mind, in a time not that long ago for me but forever for them. I broke the aluminum bracelet of Major William H.Condit that I had worn for many years, as a reminder of his status as a POW-MIA from Vietnam. Shot down in the 60's held prisoner for..... God knows how long, died in captivity, and his bones were returned sometime around 1997. hope in shattered shiny red pieces adorned his grave that day, And of another, who recently died, riddled with cancers, he spoke of dreams to me once, in colors that were magnificent, but agent orange rusted them away. He was a poet, unpublished, because no one cared for his poems of war, I hold some here, haunting words of another time, another futile war, that ground up 58,000 men, before troops were withdrawn, and chaos ensued. History is a repeating echo, that whispers softly through the trees at Arlington, and falls on deaf ears, in the halls of the capital, and in the hearts of our commanders-in-grief. Pray for peace, and remember the fallen, for they remembered you when they breathed their last, some clutched the flags that you cross your hearts for, before sucking down beer, and chili dogs at the baseball and football fields. They took the flaming shrapnel of death in your place, how often have you visited their place, where the quiet is so loud, that you can actually hear the whispers of what could have been rustling restlessly in the well groomed grass. It emanates daily from the depths of our nations expendable losses spent in lost causes, even now as I write this poem.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III