Leaving Afghanistan

image

The courtyard is alive with the spit of angry bullets,
And baked hard by the scorching sun.

Clouds of smoke drift in,
In patches,

And are,
Collected by moans,

That become tiny whirlwinds,
That suck on the dog tags on dead men’s chests.

I am the gate keeper.

Two flags gone
Marking bodies where they fell,

Manure,
Useful,

Two flags fleeing loose rounds,
Auras,

Fleeting,

Bring your palm, I can read it now,
Unhinged as I am,

The last are,
Making their way home.

-evocative short poetry-

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Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 17:14  Leave a Comment  
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