The sound of war

How lifeless propellers and rusting fuselage
hung in lank loose air looking
down at desert tumbleweed ground, how silent
an unshaven old faced fellow
standing outside the pilotless cockpit rather
despaired. ….the one burnt dry
wood post with single barbed wire remnant from
no man’s land stood condemned;
the twinges in his face and hands stinging shrapnel,
“i am the hounded, agony is my
garment to wear, tumbling walls of my unwillingness
livid upon me as i lean on the
cane of temporary freedom, yet taunted by the weeds
and stones of war. ….” how the
sounds of storming clouds much as picks and shovels
digging foxholes, they taunt his
exhausted body; how he somehow hears the voice of
his wife, carries tattered love letters
as if they were the light of her torch. ….yet, long roll of
cannon and mortar, suffering, the barbed
wire is sharp, he does not ask the dying how he feels.

Copyright © 08/15/2015 fishbonepoetry®

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

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