Pretty long in thought, but tales of the best are not said short!!
Autumn blankets fragile tunes of pain,
Afar sirens pipe up; heralds in solitary,
"We've won, we're done"!
Left lid percolates ashes dwelling on its mount,
Awakens to a nostalgic dream…
The right smothered in red frozen layers,
Like maple sheets raked from dew dawn scars,
Clamber to rise, to rebel…
Thorns suspending beneath iron-heel rails;
Hitch and repatriate in unity; and he sees…
Stares sunk in guilt; in tears,
Salutes lend half-mast shoulders,
Coffins draped in red and blue,
Depart a scene of dread; of gloom,
With glory, they bid farewell…
Crusading shores of silent smiles,
Sacrifices, they respect of who bask in sun and rains!
Sans headstones for thousands;
They lay in unity, even then…
Horror in heaven's hub this day,
Breathing prints of dismay,
For a welcome, the living knights await,
From craters of hearts in far west!
They hitch, follow, journey…
Dusk roofs storms in solitude,
Carpeting lying mannequins;
Of victory, of gratitude;
Of bravery, of patriotism…!
From the grave of an unfortunate few,
A palm stretches out in dirt to clutch,
Disfigured frame of joy from ages beyond,
His angels' blonde, baby's blue;
Stroked in red; rolled to tear...
(Wheat Field with Rising Sun, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889)
As the crimson serpents commence to fade in sync, His baby awaits on the front porch; the chime aloud,
His angel cruising through the daffodil cloud,
Shifting the haze of daylight behind the hills in sight,
A final good night, the bone colored moon arise.
She proceeds to peek with curio, with love,
As shadows begins to bestow over the;
Yellows and greens to grays now...
Angel rushes through the meadows of rainbows,
Embracing the prism of wonders from the day;
Breeze beneath the pines slowly wrap in peace.
Pondering about the horizons of a new beginning…
She still waits to hear a horn; to exclaim to the whisper;
He gifted in those lovely hugs; but miles away, he lay in anguish…
His grace dead, his walks ceased,
Only can his soul hitch its way to eternity,
Rigid his senses behave... deny leaving the body, the pain;
But as the soul puts off on a lullaby of depart,
Crossing craters of bones, he lingers by,
Shadows slowly descend; they choose to stay back
Feathers drawn on his ribs lure glory, pride, and fly!
Sinned he may have, for he cannot inhale freedom,
He’s won the war, yielded to the death Lord, for future peace...
But his soul and spirit wanders in agony, looking over his loved ones...
For he cherishes the freedom they rejoice,
Even when tears wash away afflict of absent love...
Where he floats, over craters of stones,
That image of love, of home, reminiscence….
Of hope, of freedom beyond the meadows of his dear country land!
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