come home

the shouts of terrorthe whizz of bulletsthe thumping of drumsmy heart in my throat Her tender hands caress his skin,his eyes looking into horrors,horrors of the pasthe cannot escape. luis falls blossoming of blood,the screams “please” “help”they mean nothingmy hands cover his woundthe light fades out Whimpers escape his lips,shattered glass lies in front of

march on, soldier

the drums are loud.so is our breathing.our hollow eyes, our hollow heart,beating in timewith the hollow dreamsand our breathless breaths. dirt and grime clingsto everything.to our clothes, our shoes,our hearts, our eyes,our tears that fallas our friends fall. we arrived, joyous and loud,fifty five of us,baby-faced, fresh breaths,worn soldiers looked with sadness,we didn’t understand. we