Letters from an American Soldier
Mother, father, sister, brother:
My will has been broken.
I sit nestled in leaves
branching over blood and field.
This sunset ridicules the decay
of my country’s remains.
On mountains once shared, and breakfast tables
Will we ever mend these disconnected cables?
Tents fill bottles and eyes with liquid compromise
as I’m left to read about days of old
and dream of coming home.
I’m thankful you all stayed on the family farm.
A friend of mine watched
as his brother died
On the far side
of enemy lines.
How could the conversation stop in order for towns to burn?
War is hell and I’m faced to bring it
in bags and drop it on the doorsteps
of a backwards society.
My clothes are torn with ragged sweat and the blood of my friends.
I wish that I could go back to childhood
and start my life again.
With a form of innocence that no longer resides within me
I’m broken but held together by curse and scorn. Born
is the man who cannot forget.
Above these hills are visions of freedom
but if I jump, I will not land on my feet
nor on my knees but in a sea full of dreams
that will never be seen.
Keep my place at the table warm
for I will return someday
in some kind of form.
I hope I can hold you all before I die
in these arms that time has denied
my enemy.
I’m thankful you all stayed on the family farm.
JP
2015
-- Leo Tolstoy
