that beautiful middle eastern child runs giddily across the dust-fogged alley with that chinese manufactured American bullet lodged gruesomely cocked up 45 degrees portruding from his golden brown skin, as he runs towards his father, in this reminiscion, unphased by the bullet and as he gets within a breath his father falls, stiff and cold and as his bust enters the bottom sector of his minds eye, and the boy opens his mouth slightly as his eyes transform in their innocent brown, in confusion, in bewilderment, and as the two meet in their simultaneous last fall to the dirt he wakes up, again sleepless, haunted eternally by this child who had been killed in an incidental fire accident, dying underneath, new al quaeda leader Mahmar Al Zauffari, his papa. The soldier wakes from his spot in the middle of the vast desert wilderness with his uniform pulled down as just pants, his gold star, medalling his honor, glistens against the scalding Gobi sun as his body, now emaciated and laden with dusty chains slowly rises to face forth another day of survival. he can't go back, he could never go back. His conscience forbids him and his guilt will not negotiate. A hero of war, they said, a murderer and a cold blooded killer said he, and so he is made to wander this wasteland haunted by hallucinations of his past, complete with newly acquired schizophrenia as he is unable to escape the death heavy praises of his heroism which roar like a lion in his sensitive ear, and he walks, dying for food, dying of thirst, unable to be lost, unable to be found, unable to be free, unable to submit, unable to die, unable to live. he cries to the skies, yet they withold their pour, and as he prays for that cup and that day, he wastes away the last few of his here dying to die after dying to live. He lives a hero of war. He dies in the pain of mortality haunted by brutality, but finally able to be truly free, in a land where its cost has been already paid and he leadership is to say the least perfect.
Here lies Jason R. Sheffield Crpl. US Marine Corps:
haunted till the day he died
by the images of those glorious lied
winning of the medal of honor
its price, was not of victory donner
his shot was perfect and aim sincere
but in following this order he threw away all dear
to live a life as an unknown martyr of war
not during, but after, while it rotted his core
1990-2011
RIP
Here lies Jason R. Sheffield Crpl. US Marine Corps:
haunted till the day he died
by the images of those glorious lied
winning of the medal of honor
its price, was not of victory donner
his shot was perfect and aim sincere
but in following this order he threw away all dear
to live a life as an unknown martyr of war
not during, but after, while it rotted his core
1990-2011
RIP
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