medic! medic! oh, dear god, what fools were we to march unknowing into this war of concrete!

A Poem by samuraipanda

coming to terms with growing apart.

you've got no claim over the valley of salt;
you've traded it in for simulated saccharin,
and the vast expanse of orange fields of the post-apocolypse.
accompanied by fellow battle clad warriors -
draw the blood,
take the heat,
face the flood,
brave the beat...
...ing
never admit defeat,
even when you've left your sword at home,
sheathed, shining, the blade only sharpened in pretense.
when your brothers in war bang the battle drum,
a signal to and in tribute of our last stand,
it echoes through the grains of salt and rows of trees,
is when you embrace your courage,
and promptly turn away.
you're no stranger to blood,
just not your own.
and this manipulated quasi adoration can be called home.
the welcome mat reads "lonely."
as we all draw our swords and scream,
and dive face first into the horizon,
you claim,
that now you're facing away,
we're the ones who turned our back to you.
and i concede that technically, that's true.
but if we have to drag you,
are we even moving the same direction?
you left/led us to die.
but we all, in our own way,
survived.
and now, our war being over,
as we rendezvous at the city by the sea,
we all stare in horror as the body of the little girl we raised together
comes floating down the river,
face up,
still with that twinkle in her eye we now despise,
but you,
you push along,
lightly humming improvised melodies to songs we'll never know,
inaudible because,
even though i see the hunger in your eyes,
your actions still are deafening.
and this, my latest opus,
the more defined,
the less nebulous,
although allegories of war pierce the piece like daggars,
is a call to peace,
a truce.
a cheap ticket for the truth
is my mother's grace.
my kingdom is yours,
for the low, low price of debts paid.
lets clean the crimson from the blades
and purify these wounds with salt
from this valley,
our home,
our grave.
then go, and each pave our own way.