by S.D. Parsons

Published in Issue No. 1 ~ October, 1995

I’ve never witnessed war’s carnage,
Though I know how bodies lie when sapped of life;
Bankrupt blood ebbs upon the sand
Like a crimson-cast tide, undulating as the heart
Marching slower, growing still.

Where were we then, that night of Fate’s
When generals plotted history upon vellum maps?
We raised our drunken glasses later,
Each toasting our own crowning victory over another
As days passed, seamlessly.

Even then, upon the inaugural night,
While stars stippled the brazen winter sky azure and indigo,
A traitor walked freely amongst us.
We knew his title, the name given to cowards and spies.
Became our marker, the game of fools.

Still, thunder knocks upon the doorstep.
Rain, tap-dancing upon the sill, reminds me of a play enacted
By the tin stars of self-inflated cops.
Their clubs, wielded as an insult, injuriously struck home
Over one less pale, less fortunate.

I was the victim that night,
Though mist concealed my fragile bones behind a pillar.
You were the courageous one,
Spouting your indomitability, your ability to provide
For their rights, for wrongs committed.

Cast upon the seas of adventure,
I am envious of the strength with which you moor my anchor
Fast within the fertile soil we planted
As an offering to shared ideals; to a god we valiantly named
Amidst the landscape I call home.

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S.D. Parsons spends the majority of his time traveling the world in search of the perfect cappuccino. A Zen Buddhist at heart, he feels the downfall of all Western Civilization can be traced directly to man's inability to accept his neighbor's God. He says: "We stand on the cusp of great understanding, but our ignorance blinds us, keeps us from seeing the miracles unfolding right before our eyes."