Make a crescendo of personal experiences and intersperse it with the war scene so people don’t forget.
A boy once dreamed
Of the barrel of the gun
And when he woke up
He didn’t tell anyone…
The blast laid him under rubble,
It laid him under spent breath,
It laid him in his house—
Disemboweled in the streets.
It was the rumble of the first war
That his cloud seeding blue eyes
(Gaze set on under
Rubble, wood, and metal splinters)
Would ever dimly dust to.
A minefield became the road home,
Broken concrete and wet dirt of war
That passed by the elementary school—
The cemetery’s schedule—
And the apartments Promised and Protected.
He watched where the pavement bloomed
Into the soot heavy and red sky
Around the warm bomb crater,
Whose torn edges pierced the clouds,
When a drop of blood dried
To his concussion-crushed nose
From his glazed over eyes.
And his cold, chalk-drawn face
Was peaceful and lost—
Drawn into the percussion orchestra
And shifting dead colors.
He could feel his heart beating low
And he dreamed he was still alive…
The mortars spitfire shrapnel and debris,
In the distant neighborhoods
And echoed dully
Between the scarred skeletons
Of corroded metal bars
And crumbling brick
Where smoke wafted
Through burnt out windows.
The door frame where his mother
Measured his height in centimeters—
The progressive notches
That he would smile proudly at each year—
Lay horizontally in front of his torn t-shirt.
His vacant peripheral caught
The upper half of his doorframe
That was clean and unmarked
Waiting and flaking the varnish
Where he would have grown,
Where he could have been
And might have seen
Over his mothers hair,
And smile with his teeth again.
The beam was still whole, though,
And he was shattered.
A tank rumbled by,
Taking its numbers
And kicking up soot that clung
To his drying retinas.
Its dark wind took his papers,
His schoolwork, with it.
That one was his best score,
That one he learned how to spell
The treads also crushed
Cold fragments of concrete.
Drops of stone spit into the air
Along the broken columns
Of the gutted lobby,
Bullets breaking the silence
And halting the tank
Over his spent bedroom
And his snuffed life.
His fixed camera sight was cut
With grey shadows and pure darkness.
When he played army
It was Never like this it was Never like this it was Never like this.
He just wanted
To play again.
Turn off your cameras.