Like A Soldier

We walk, and we talk, much like adults now,

but the thing, we're nowhere close.

Still just the children making their way,

still holding tight to the benifit of the doubt.

Making excuses to stay out later,

even though the night is oh so very young.

Fingers turning yellow from all the spare smoke,

you can still smell it in the air.

Much like the smell of french fries, and chicken fingers...pizza...

the simple things that remind you of when you were young,

of memories laid to rest in a peaceful place free from war, and hunger, and hate.

The things that rush pictures into your head.

"What you're feeling is simply passion, not love.",

and it's not like I never heard that before you.

I couldn't see a thing if I tried,

and I was always struggling in the blind truth.

More like the blinding truth.

You really don't need the big picture,

you don't need all the technicalities,

because a blurry image is the basis for any detail.

You know no matter how far this road goes,

and no matter how far we are all brought from eachother,

I will wait at the end of the road,

anticipating every bright, broken face that made it through too,

because I always did love the reactions after so long.

The times when you could notice the change.

I know that no matter how long it may be,

we'll keep walking.

How I always feel like a soldier on a mission,

not stopping because of the sun,

because of the cold.

Not when everyone else would.

The memory of that island, tarnished by the cold,

it's growing deeper into my heart,

planting it's roots in every vein.

I always felt like we could avoid all the traffic,

dodge

every

last

car.

The only thing is that back then

we

had

never,

ever

seen

one.

Now that we are I guess it's something you could worry about,

but i'm not that concerned.

At this point i'm sure that line down the middle of the street is an arrow,

and we're just making our way towards whatever has been put there for us,

and the dream of it all is the motivation

till

the

last

drop

out

of

this

hourglass.

Reviews

[pasdepoisson]

Being a soldier myself, I can relate to the theme of the long road and the dream being its own motivation-- though my own experience of any mission is more of the "hurry up and wait" variety.

Speaking of which, I like how you describe this path in long, flowing lines punctuated by the staccato fragments in slow passages.

I especially like "Planting it's root in every vein", although in this case it's debatable whether the possessive "its" needs an apostrophe, as memory's usually an inanimate object. In your version, memory is animated.

Good work!