The red death plumes as if reignited.
I am the kindling.
The embers soar, an eagle of the night
Heat tightens the skin like a clenched fist
the taste of cigarettes envelop my taste buds
and their soft releases of breath carry it.
my salvation is the ambrosia, this bottle of liquor
The rough texture of it hits my tongue like the bullet that
hit Ed Werner last week somewhere in Vung Tau, South Vietnam
I find myself only buddy-buddy when I have my drink
The air reminds me of the BBQ I had before I left
“Tack him! Tack him!” they yelled, playing a game of ball
Their shouts ran these men into battle
The painful wound of a tortured ego drags these men
Into mud deeper than any we’ve slept in.
“Even the boys bring death”
These ripped the men who killed them into death himself--impartial.
The families that remain will forever hold that anguish
Gripping hearts that carry the throb of a wound
may never loosen their grip
We’ll have to pry our minds from the souls of beginnings
người da trắng ngu ngốc
Air whispers its hatred for us with every gust
This glow is our fortress, our coming home, our final battle.

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