Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The dogs of war

The bliss of the morning sun, 
And the late kiss of night, 
For the hound that carried his heart in the fist,
and he was always lost in the light.

The screaming bullet that haunts his sleep,
His tears to dry yet his mind weeps in the deep,
The curtain of slumber, so soft in its comfort,
But the morning will never come.

Those dreams of death and disease,
The faces of clouds and his daring memories,
And the cold hands reach his heart in the mourning rain,
Falling and falling, how quickly comes the pain.  

Tragedy and on its comic behalf,
For the world is laughing in his head,
The heavy thunder of madness struck,
The wounded man who slept and wept.

The steel was firm and the trigger hard,
The waiting bullet that loves him not,
Yet the sweet smell of heaven's illusion,
Calls this night swiftly for his darkening madness to end peacefully.


  1. Because I lived the life you described for over 25-years, I have a real sense and feel for the depth of each description. Sadly, it took me down some old roads, but that is not always a bad thing. Keep up the good work, Thank you, Dave

  2. well,im glad you liked it...the brunt of war is only for the eyes to see but to never remember the past is quite a mistake for people to make..i hope all is not forgooten,because you will remember something,good or bad,that mortal minds and vision that so soon forget...

  3. To regain yourself in peace after what you describe is admirable to me, and evokes sympathy for those who do not heal. Your poem is very moving and intense. cheers

  4. "Tragedy and on its comic behalf..." - That's life. Thanks for sharing so great thoughts.