Knuckles red, knuckles bleeding… And beautiful Mary
Knuckle red, knuckles bleeding…
Knuckles red, knuckles bleeding.
My father fought and fought,
wars that could not be won.
He told me in his drunkenness state. He told me. I killed and I killed. I melted down three machine guns barrels.
I saw body on body of the dead. Thousand we killed and I didn’t want to see the face of the enemy.
I remember my friend left behind.
They are still buried somewhere in the Korean dirt.
He told me. Son, war is shit, war is hell.
I pray the old soldier can find peace in death. In life, my father fought old wars everyday and every night.
My father never found peace.
The damn wars tattoos and spoil the soul.
Killed your hope and your vision.
And the wars are never-ending for men with.
Knuckle red, knuckles bleeding.
Coyote
your poetry is captivating. But we have been out of touch for some time because of my absence. now i am back do visit my blog because your presence and comments help me move forward. in particular there is one on my mother which is the latest apart from covid, our defences and budgies and giant goramis. lol
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Thank you Indrajit. I will check your site out now.
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