IRR

IRR

A man sits on a bench
quiet and somber,
in a horde of hugs and withheld tears
he is wrinkled
and alone.

Women adjust their faces,
pulling up their frowns
like blouse sleeves
readying for holding in fears,
and raising

babies against shoulders
as awkward footed tots
look broken eyed
and lost
while Daddies get their goodbye kisses.

The soldiers mill.

Battles Rage.

and for the first time since boots

and flags fell

on angry sand

I cry.

For those already carrying bills we, the indebted, 

can not

and will not pay,

who wish to rip velcro names off worn uniforms
heavy helmets off shaved heads
our tanks off deserts,

I cry
for those who are too loyal
too courageous
for their own preservation,

            And for us.

and I send out a message: 

                                          This war is terror

                                             on beliefs,

                                                 citizens,

                                                    Love,

With hope it won't take losing

my lover,

and your young men

in arms,

to realize This.

*Original draft written Dec. 2, 2009. This draft was combined from two other drafts just tonight. This poem has been one of the hardest to get exactly how I want it, and although controversial, it is also a favorite of mine. Please help me workshop this piece*