Found it again and thought it might be appropriate to re-publish it here with a new year looming and all. What can we do to keep this kind of legacy from repeating itself in our future?
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His eyes were full of the things he had seen. His mouth, full of stories better passed over than passed down. Memories caught in his craw and woke him sweating cold in the dread of his nights and left him staring into his darkness til Dawn’s early light.
Well meaning people wearing blue scrubs and white coats did what they could. As it was with so many others, it did not work out. Scarred and broken, he was sent back to a homeland that would never be the same for him. His innocence pooled bloody on too many foreign plains. Feeling forgotten, discarded and alone with his demons, he sought solace in barbiturates, whiskey and gin. He could never forget his role in the premeditated chaos of Man killing Man in faraway lands.
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Later ..............................................
2 comments:
That is soulful.
There are still people who sometimes remember the smell of young human bodies stacked like cordwood on a pallet waiting for a C-130 to come and take them home.
thanks
the Ol'Buzzard
made me weep
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