Fragments of fictitious regiments,

which have never stood, now cast

shadows, Infused with the life

of a miracle mind, radiating rays

of hope. The son’s of fallen soldiers

cry out in anguish for the petals

nourishing the decay of death.

Cautioned about power’s insatiable

hunger, and the difficulty to be

found in plowing these fields of fond

foliage, without inspired guidance.

Remembering, sadly a youth dreams of

revenge.

The field newly tilled, offered to

the tears of cloudy conscience,

falling falsely upon the ground once

slaved over, only to wash away the 

eroding evidence of last years harvest.

With them goes the footprints of

each distraught young man dreadfully

walking to find his father, so he may

memorize his face one last time, so new

seeds may be spread upon the saturated

earth which welcomes new growth,

new hope.

Expanding, the roots resemble the

fingertips of memories, rocketing

through programmed paths of thought

so you’d never forget innocence, never

forget revenge. Swelling with pride

the fruit falls, smashing itself hard

against the enriched earth.

Separated, flesh from core, the creatures

working to keep the process clean.

Moving quick, angrily feasting upon the

waste of moist, sweet flesh, while the son

passes time rewriting history with poetic

inspirational speeches to his compatriots.

Another word sent flying.

Many years removed, his craft is passed

to the next son. With each decade their

shoulders widen, they become wiser,

the decadence mightier.

Reviewing his father’s notes, and the wrinkles

imposed by memory.

A mind once as pure as this young man’s,

is soon replaced by terror, expectation,

and anger. He grips the plow, tills

the field, all the while dispersing salt

upon virgin soil screaming,

“This stops! This stops!”

Blood flows for his compassion,

for his love, for his patience,

for his speech, for his ignorance,

that he alone could stop it.