© G. V. 01.27.2013 All rights reserved
and post notes and photos about your poem.
Her image fled among the trees,
twas strange that time when fates stepped
in painful dreams - pictures inept,
of soldiers killed, legion's trustees.
Was ordered to serve by conscription,
and in the camps for many years,
ascertained was that the war's fears
his mind dismissed by proscription.
The coffee in cup on mountain's glen,
in plain night darkness of midwinter,
his fingers warmed - tasted bitter,
the M16 A4's his friend.
He stayed with it for two decades,
cannot describe how time was lost,
cannot recall him being a ghost,
that fled to slopes and pure cascades.
But he recalls that March first morn,
she sent a note, with drawn clovers,
close to the grind of tanks' dozers,
- pure words and tears on paper worn.
He never knew to phrase answers,
and also thought that she wouldn't wait;
an empty-strange was quantum of fate,
the stardom called the shot advancers.
On molten snow stream her worn mail goes,
a paper boat that trails afar,
his stare followed - he was shot hard,
upon the snow two qubits froze.