A poem for the soul

[furrylitldevil]

“He’s not alive
And I can’t make him alive.”
Words of a mother who lost her son in Iraq.
Her grief drips down her face like melted candle wax
And my heart caves in my chest when I hear her say,
“He’s not alive
And I can’t make him alive.”
As if she could pluck her anguish out of the air and use it to patch his open wounds.
And
Rip away at her anger, confusion, pain, remorse, and
Faction a battle-dressing across his torso.
Breathing life into his inanimate body with every teardrop and cold sweat
Willing him back
into her arms.
Reading his last letter aloud,
The ink absorbs into her fingertips and travels
Through her arm
Past her brain-stem and
Pries open the curtain window-lashes of naiveté
And for the first time she sees.
She sees that we’re all being held down with combined counter-balance of a million
dreams for a
Better tomorrow
Offset with a handful of “haves” and “have-mores” who hold an iron grip monopoly on
Better tomorrows.
Only…
The words don’t just affect her.
They permeate my eardrums,
Blaze past my unconscious
And obliterate my eyelids so that I am forced to perceive things that I don’t want to see like
Teeming masses of huddled humanity herded inside a box with the
bolts tightened down.
I have seen novels composed on the backs of broken/burned
Iraqi children.
I have seen firebombs that could not extinguish a single flower on the banks of the
Tigris Euphrates.
I have seen a grown man pray for peace while simultaneously pulling a trigger against the
temple of a 5 year old boy.
I have seen God cry and don’t know if they were tears of pain or
tears of joy
&
My clinched fists bleed blood that could slit wrists
and bare witness to the misfits inside a tempest
But I’m
All outta flow.
And I don’t know if I should rage, breakdown, or cry
Whenever I hear her say,
“He’s not alive
And I can’t make him alive.”

[Droopy]

1. Is that your own?

Very nice work.

[furrylitldevil]

2. Yup, mine

Recently revised.