|
The Guilt Quilt |
|
Slowly,
painfully, within his mind he’s built |
|
Something that resembles a patchwork quilt |
| From recollections of a distant war... |
|
From events he was never responsible for. |
|
He sits there with his head atilt |
|
Methodically stitching his coverlet of guilt. |
| Mortars chunk behind his lowered eyes, |
|
With tracers darting like deadly fireflies |
|
Crisscrossing the night in laser-bright lines |
|
As he relives another firefight in his mind. |
|
Curses and shrapnel shred the humid air; |
|
Wasn’t there a song about rockets’ red glare? |
|
Exploding mortars and small arms fire, |
|
Pulse thudding and Charlie in the wire; |
|
All the heart-wrenching things he’s seen, |
|
Replaying in 3 D across his mind’s screen. |
|
He weilds his needle with brittle verve |
| Filled with angst and jangled nerves; |
|
Hard at work, his eyes narrowed slits |
|
He diligently constructs his blanket of guilt. |
| © 4/23/2010 T.P. Woodfork |
Awarded 25 April 2010
Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork
View My Guestbook
Sign
My Guestbook
