PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I write to you today

with no regrets and peace of mind;

I'm coming home, baby.



   Your calloused hands once gentle and warm

   pour onto these pages with such sincerity

   that it's difficult to picture you

   covered in mud and with blood-washed hands.



   It's been easier not thinking of you;

   bombs only fall in the heart.



The date is not certain,

but days are but a string of minutes;

time is the shoulder for the weak,

the excuse for the dying.



   But I thought it was the good

   who died so young?

   Isn't that what war is all about,  

   infesting youth with the honor

   to manipulate hell?



Enjoy your last weeks beneath cold sheets;

I don't plan on leaving your side for days.

Rest easy, my love-

I'm coming home next month.



   Of course you are. You'll emerge from the aircraft

   a different man, hoisted high on the shoulders

   of straight-faced soldiers,

   wrapped in stripes and seeing stars.