Vietnam�Trick Bag
Jungle silence
shouts the enemies presence
I know Victor Charles squats�waiting . . . waiting
and he knows I know
Yet, down the trail I trip
step . . . listen / look . . . step
Sweat drip
A game I must play
As armchair warriors rule the day
In the hell-hole of my mind are their faces
And I am pulled
into their eyes . . . their eyes
Their eyes; wide with terror
begging for mercy
Yet, grasping their fate�and mine
An eternal pact
In the paddies of my mind
their screams do resound
Hands over my ears
only locks them in
I take another sip
But no amount of whiskey ever dulls the trip
The only anodyne I find
is to re-live that terrible day
And become one with their re-death
Another bond
I study him
He towers over most
yet feels dwarfed in their presence
He tries to understand life
but it is a game of Scrabble, sans vowels
He is composed
but his mind tick . . . tick . . . ticks. . . .
Anger long repressed waiting for a mad minute
He has deep emotions; rivers of anguish can flow from his eyes
but he can be as hard as a diamond shines
He feels alienated
observing civilization while gone underground in their midst
He simply seeks peace of mind
but cannot attain a truce
Not for him
It lingers in his day dreams and haunts his nightmares
the incubus of his soul
I reach out and touch my mirror image craving a oneness
but alas, he is just . . .
Glass