-April 18, 2005
The mechanic wheels spin in an ectopic motion,
skipping and shaking on uneven made sprockets,
sending forward the messages of fallen soldiers.
Their days turn grey and their nights light up
like fireworks at a celebration.
And they’re up to knees with mud and swallowing their breaths
as stomachs fill with phobia.
But they fight with morphine in vain.
Air thick with bullets that attack like swarms of bees.
Still they march in the spotlight in blue twilight.
They pour glasses of red wine for the victory nation.
Many fold hands, others count beads
wishing tomorrow’s horizon shine with children
playing through vineyards of grapes.
But they stand under the shadow of the soiled skyline
as they ignite souls into ashes,
and blow across these fields’
engraved procession of honorable soldiers.
Their leaders proclaim to preach the song of a dove,
but really are only mockingbirds
pretending to be eagles.
Still the sprockets move forward.
Wheels are turning; smoke exhales from war machines,
digging in trenches and filling them like graves.
The proclaimers lift their glasses,
drip blood of soldiers down their throats,
and pick the dyed petals from roses of victory.