Old men gather glances
Inside of a paper cup
With wrinkling notions
To impede the plaguing war
Worn upon such aching brows
With scattered seed of confidence
Growing rampantly behind
Eyes scarred of blind leading
Preparing for oncoming dawn
They circle in vacant rooms
A memory of toil blushing
On cheeks of dirty ruin
The bombs will break the quiet
And windows of time will shatter
The present presents itself
As babble of a history teller
Tears are blending into pools
And are rising overhead and
Veteran bodies buckle under
Water weight and shackles binding
The tapes spin and whirl
And the battles begin again
Ending only abruptly to
Silence a room of quivering lips
Before the flood subsides
Leaving the old, reborn.

06/25/2009

Posted on 06/25/2009
Copyright © 2024 Jared Orlando