Those Dust Streaked Ones

with fading pages scrapbook found, forgotten faces become unbound, I miss my war to feel my gun, I knew my place the ground we won, the falling brass, the men, the line, my life for theirs and theirs for mine, do I yearn for danger's thrill? the snap of copper the fear, the kill? or is it more in home's embrace, forgetting feasts of conflict's bitter taste... no, it's more as oft the case, those dust streaked ones the love sublime, the common bond of blood, of time, it falls away of why we fought, the banner furled for good, for naught, a nation's pride, for flags or oil, a righteous march on foreign soil... but sighing at my thoughts, my foil, all quiet now as drumbeats fade, hushed in fields by dusk's slow parade.