When the sun rises but after the dust settles,
the journey begins,
the long and arduous adventure
I came from hell,
enrolled and went back again.
This dust doesn’t taste the same,
it tastes acrid.
Bitter with the blood of my would be life takers.
My vision, that white light, blurred.
Blinded by the silence of death.
The agonizing screams, the fear of the unknown.
The horror of the reapers cold grip.
And then blackness.
The pomp and circumstance,
the idyllic staged parade,
for the boy who no one cared enough to celebrate.
Waving flags and going through the motions.
Hell is more welcoming than this false revelry.
(The liquor is better too.)
The winds shift West
and with them escape.
Or was it the false promise of citrus
Another hell. This one cancerous.
The silent pain of failure
burns white-hot, yet I smile
the bravery smile.
I would be remiss,
this mission, toxic.
My toxicology shows signs of life.
And the dust settles.
I sigh, why me?
The phoenix rises again.
This generation’s Job.
The phone rings.
The son rises,
but only after the dust settles.
January 20, 2018 at 7:02 am
Reblogged this on Media By Vox.
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January 30, 2018 at 7:55 am
you’re such a good writer