-Stained Glass-(Part 6)

"Stained Glass"

"Remembrance"

There comes a time and a place,
when we must forget about standing tall,
and look at all these names straight in the face,
then break down in tears as on our knees we fall.

Look at the wall, read the names, remember them good,
there are so many names, of those people who died,
they held their positions, on enemy ground they stood,
yet they still got killed, in this bloody war, but they tried.

They fought for our country, they fought so hard,
they protected our values, with freedom on their mind.
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness they tried to guard,
while fighting off the evils of communism from far away and blind.

There was Kieran J. Starr and Raymond C. Clark,
they got up by daylight, and died before dark.
Tommy L. Shehorn, John P. Brown, and David B. Conn,
never even made it home, they are forever gone.
Allen E. Firth, George E. Cahill, and David G. Kerney,
died for us, me and you, during their journey.
Mark S. Behient, Kenneth R. Stubblefield, and Robert W. May,
fought for their lives, and struggled to see their next day.
While Phillip L. Lee, Joseph F. Cook, and Jimmy E. Page,
survived a very long time, they still got killed by the enemy's rage.
and then there was David E. Gore and Charles D. Flood,
who tried so hard, so very hard, yet still ended up in a pile of blood.

These are just some of the names, that cover the wall;
thousands and thousands of names, written side by side, back to back,
they start on the ground, and reach ten foot tall, yet never seem to end at all,
while the faint glimmer of the white is swallowed up by the emptiness and grief of the black.

They fought an enemy, one they couldn't see,
they were trained to fight, and forced to kill,
but they thought only one thing, what it's like to be free;
What can we do but cry, when we think of how they feel.

The ground is stained red, from all the blood that was spilled,
and our memories are scared from the tragedy's revealed;
Our stomachs are twisted, and our body's are chilled,
by all the family, friends, and fellow people who were killed.

I'd like to thank all the men, and women, for all that they've done;
For they are the glue that can hold our great country together,
even if it means to die defending us, instead of turning to run.
Let me promise you this, I'll never forget, I'll remember forever...

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"A Puddle Of Life"

"At Home"

An old lonely man, fell asleep one day, on an empty park bench;
a few loose threads hung somewhere between those holes called his clothes.
His face was dirty, his hands were blistered, he smelled of sweat, that rotten stench;
whether he has a family, or a couple of friends, nobody knows.
Yet he is not alone, there are others like him, out there alone;
forced to beg, to plead, or even to steal, just for a small taste of leftover bread.
He turns on his side, then rolls over a little, he makes a soft grunt, then gives a low groan;
cuts cover his palms, his skins torn apart, and blood drips off his body and turns the ground red.
It starts to rain, then hail, now there's snow, he's so cold that he begins to shake and shiver;
he tucks his feet in, up near his body, he needs some warmth, some strength to survive.
For his life's like a raft, manless, sinking, and nearing the waterfall at the end of the river;
his life's already over, he still hopes, and tries not to notice, he won't stop now, he'll always strive.
A pigeon, fat and full, lands on the mans stomach, the swollen yet empty thing it's become;
the bird cocks his head, and stares at the man, he opens his eyes, and smiles at the bird.
A man so tormented, yet he remains happy and hopefull, so much stronger than some;
the bird flies away, as he closes his eyes, this was his home, here on the corner of prosperity and third.

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