Killing Our Dead

Blessed are the Peacemakers;

awash in the blood of innocence,

their own culpability

coppery red upon their lips.

Never wage a war in a vacuum.

There is a simple rule

obeyed by all combatants.

Surrender,

only to your baser urges.

 

I have never killed a man.

I have never desired it so.

There was never a time that my hands craved blood,

that my teeth bared

and my weapons readied for the end

of my life,

or theirs.

 That wide and yawning chasm of insanity;

black pit nightmare,

ravening madness,

sickened to the core.

 

Though troubled in my youth,

Death eluded me.

I never signed the waiver,

never asked permission;

never felt the courage,

or the desperation

to fly off the foreign lands

and deal out Justice

with raucous aplomb.

 

The only blood on my hands

is my own.

While my generation died in scores

over on some forsaken mountain range

in a land never conquered by a foreign force;

I was trying to survive

my own mind;

my own war.

 

The only grave I ever dug

was for myself.

I dumped the corpse of my past

into a fetid hole

and left it there.

Fucking old vampire

still comes around from time to time

and wails at my window,

but that war will never end.

 

Trauma to the mind

is trauma to the mind

and trauma to the mind

is forever.

Death is a constant

and those who have known Death

know that it will never leave them.

Once it has your scent;

it stalks you,

desiring your soul

and sometimes,

it’s easy to imagine losing the war,

but you fight it anyway.

 

Some of us don’t get to choose our fight,

but the blood is still coppery red on our lips

and our hands

and our eyes.

There will only ever be one day

when the pain will not be felt

and we fight to hold off that day

as long as possible,

while there is still life here

that needs saving.

 

HG – 2017

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