As a rhapsody of death plays like the weary wind, I slowly inch through the choking fear of each blood spent memory. I am a grain of sand in this scattered mind of uncertainty and for now the pain has fallen away like my fellow soldier's whom live no more. Onward, pushing, I crawl in bitter memory of my homeland and my newborn son I may never see.
a weary song
in a distant field a bird
In Vietnam, all helicopters were called "birds"
Copyright © Rick Parise | Year Posted 2017
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