before the soldier came home
to an open crib
he held his hand in mine
till the ship sank
when his father warmed his hand
but he couldn't stop the cold
he could still see clear skies
until his head fogged up
when we was in the war
and a worse one in his head
he slept with a wish as a martyr
and a dream to still believe
when the stars still shown
and mothers still loved
fathers are gone to their minds
losing their boy's heads
the swans swam in his eyes
and so did hope
but words will only listen in time
he had not much
and so he left the crib alone
without a stay more
his vietnam left for home
something he'll never be
YOU ARE READING
if not human
Poetrythe anthology of emotion, the passing of life, the epilogue of pure, unfiltered regret this is "if not human" poems, prose and stories from the dark
