The War, The Wall and The War

 

The War, The Wall and The War

What is it that will always be the scar we know
That formed over a wound that would not heal?

My number was not called. No one I know was lost.
But minds of my generation are gone forever, gone.

I wore my hair long, patched and faded jeans,
Rode the bus to Washington trying to do
What at least thousands thought the best to do;
Defy the tangled thoughts of power who said
The world is a bigger place than just our home.

In the end when in humiliation we left behind
Those who trusted in what was said about a way
Of life promised to be transplanted on foreign soil
And the remains of souls who could not be found
There were no bands with parades of welcome home,
There was no conscience striken conversations
Held to explain what will always be the tragedy
Of the loss of an innocence sold, bought and paid
For with a system of belief based on lies and greed.

That is over now, but the past remains upon The Wall
Whose names portray those that gave ‘the last full measure’
Not of devotion to a cause but of ‘devotion’ to each other.
It is a fine and noble thing was done in granite smooth.
A place for all of us to come and see, a place to grieve
For even those who do not know a single name there.

But they are not the only lives changed, youth murdered
Of a future, for there are veterans of that place who live
In fear of wounds not seen as well as those we choose
To not see who live homeless on the streeets of America.

They are the orphans of all our sins that belong to everyone
Who passes by and thinks how sad such a terrible price
Is being still paid but never will be accounted for
And is taking place all over again as we wait for a change
We are told will come soon; until then for the dead it is done.

This entry was published on May 26, 2014 at 9:00 am. It’s filed under Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

3 thoughts on “The War, The Wall and The War

  1. I have twice visited the wall, and its stark solemn presence startles. But what makes one weep are the letters, and offerings left. It’s been some years since I first visited, and the leavings are fewer now – but no less full of sorrow and love.

    They stopped the draft the year I graduated from High School. I had a low number.

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