Those Dust Streaked Ones
with fading pages
scrapbook found,
forgotten faces
become unbound,
I miss my war
to feel my gun,
I knew my place
the ground we won,
the falling brass,
the men, the line,
my life for theirs
and theirs for mine,
do I yearn
for danger's thrill?
the snap of copper
the fear, the kill?
or is it more
in home's embrace,
forgetting feasts
of conflict's bitter taste...
no, it's more
as oft the case,
those dust streaked ones
the love sublime,
the common bond
of blood, of time,
it falls away
of why we fought,
the banner furled
for good, for naught,
a nation's pride,
for flags or oil,
a righteous march
on foreign soil...
but sighing at
my thoughts, my foil,
all quiet now
as drumbeats fade,
hushed in fields
by dusk's slow parade.
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