phoenixrising

  On and on The boots trudged on. Through slick and slime,  And Mangled flesh, from shrapnel torn.  The boots, they didn’t care.  They had orders that bind  And duty and missions  That do turn a man blind.  Pay the piper, one must  To ensure triumph, a decisive win.  The price to be paid  With blood, bone and skin.  The boots move on,  Their soles only slightly soiled ; Indifferent lacing and leather,  The war machine’s well oiled.  The wearer of the boots.  They aren’t deaf, you know,  Sights and sound to shock the soul,  Can nary force the march to slow.  Resolute boot prints,  Over sand, soil and snow;  The message sent out loud and clear  Wherever they go.  The boots are here to stay  Till their destruction is done.  Once they’ve blotted out your Sun,  They’ll move on as one. 

  Speak to me,  She said.    Of Your wildest dreams,  Your most restless thoughts, Your silent screams.  Speak to me,  She invited.  Of that which hurts you,  And what keeps you alive.  Of the myriad mindless mayhem  That nourishes and deprives.  Speak to me,  She cajoled.  Tell me your name,  Tell me your settlement  And I’ll teach you this game.  I hear you,  She confirmed.  Your lips, they form the words.  Though whispers may err in showing,  The soft cooing of the birds.  I see you,  She smiled.  Your yearning to fill your heart’s empty bowl Your begging,  seeking, outstretched arms…  Needs only love to calm your soul.