Purple Heart

Morning glowed, Phillip. A purple fire burned beacon bright against the stinging stench of napalm. A thick thistle - two feet from your head, wordless in speech, watched with dark misfortune curving letters of prayer above your bleeding valor. A crumpled martyr lying there, innocent as a schoolboy amidst the blare of gunfire - asleep in our country’s eyes dormant in the arms of an adopted comrade. I held you - lost brother - tucked inside my soul; nineteen and breathless. The tears inside my empty lungs spilled so softly onto your forehead as I knelt in the center of August’s cancerous garden; staring at the mud stained badge nestled peacefully above your silenced heart. I slowly ingested and tasted your bullet-ridden honor, as I was viscerally blinded by the sickening, piercing strobes of a delicate mourning's glow.