Our hero on epitaph
our mouth owes a debt to your buried bones
a hot lead cracked in a jiffy,
and your brain splashed~
in the thick forest of Hanoi,
with the stains sucked by soil
as a flow thicker than water.
many blood stains on our flags
made too heavy for the wind to blow,
yet draped on your casket with full honour
cleaned by the courage interred six feet below.
many souls lost, many heroes born,
though mostly written as epitaphs
still posthumous respect holds on,
despite the strong winds of
forgetfulness
that grow like thick bushes
around your grave, but
couldn't stop the smile
in black and white,
framed
in carved oakwood.
your M16, with the last fingerprinted round,
still stands beside Uncle John's M60~
a quiet testament that friendship
has risen far beyond the soil,
toward the vaulted hush above,
where great warriors are welcomed
among the watchful sentinels
of the heavenly hosts~
the armed battalions of angels.
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